The first tiles fell with the winter snow; first one, than another of the plastic, burgundy tiles popping off the bathroom wall as a protest against my hot showers.
So I didn’t expect them to put up much resistance when I seriously went after them.
It only took about an hour, both of us working back-to-back in the narrow space, to pull them all down, chunks of ancient glue still clinging to the plaster, chunks of plaster ripping free with the ancient glue. We ripped and chipped and skinned knuckles on rough wall patches and littered the floor with dust and bits of plaster.
And just like that, we dove headfirst into summer renovation projects.
The bathroom was in pretty bad shape when we moved in, but this torn-apart stage is so much worse. It smells odd in there, dampness turning to mold around the shower, and I’m so glad we pulled those tiles out before the bit of mold spread. I’m highly allergic to it, and a bit of a hypochondriac, so my through tightens and my nose tickles at the sight of it. I’m counting down the minutes until I’m home, until I can liberally spray bleach over those horrible spores.
But already I know it’s going to be good, when we’re finished. The room fills bigger with the dark tiles gone; I’m ready to pull out the old floor and then start putting pieces back together, one by one.
Something tells me it won’t be a restful weekend.