Well, it happened. I finally did something about the kitchen floor.
I was resigned to live with the old floor until my indecision paralysis resolved itself, but fate and friends pushed me toward a faster change.
We were lucky to have some dear friends visit us over the New Year’s weekend, one of whom tripped over the edge of a loose floor tile. He survived unscathed, but the tile did not. It popped completely off the subfloor in one piece, as if it were trying to escape a bad relationship. (Which, really, you could say that it was.) I could have just stuck the wayard tile back to the plywood subfloor. Our basement is full of half-used tubes and tubs of stuff-that-sticks-stuff-to-other-stuff.
But I decided that fate was trying to tell me something: the floor had to go.
I tentatively poked at the edge of the next tile. And wouldn’t you know it, that tile lifted off with no effort at all.
That did it. Pulling up the tile became concept that suddenly felt realistic, feasible, easy even. Like picking up a spilled deck of cards.
The next few days passed by in a haze. I pulled up a tile or two whenever I passed through the kitchen. Removing the tiles like this, with no specific time set aside for the task, was oddly satisfying; like scratching idly at a school desk until a deep groove eventually appears.
And the next thing I knew, the floor looked like this.
When I woke up from my fog and saw this, I have to admit that I panicked just a little bit. I would actually need to put something else down in its place. That’s when things GOT REAL. A new kitchen floor was actually going to happen.