The Bathroom Sink

In my 41st year of life, it has dawned on me how to avoid having to scrub my bathroom sink. It’s been a good six months now that you’ll find me wiping down the sink most times immediately after using it.

This is huge because I hate doing it, likely in part because I don’t particularly like my sink in the first place. It’s too low—even for my short frame—and too shallow and too off-white in hue which prevents that gleaming shine even after a good scrubbing. The faucet is not one I would have chosen. 

And so the seconds it takes to wipe down my sink is prompted by the knowledge that doing so will save me a bigger chore later. Like being back at zero in a good way. Starting fresh. The hand washing never even happened.

I'm not always successful at keeping up this ritual. Sometimes the grime gets away from me—the old orange facecloth I use hangs forgotten. And inevitably, the sink faces little hands covered in blue paint, in pancake batter, in sparkles embedding themselves in the old sink’s invisible cracks. Then the baking soda, vinegar and steel wool must come out. I know I can’t avoid the task all together. But I can prevent it, reduce its frequency.

I wipe down my sink like I try to wipe down the residue of everyday life. 

Yes, sometimes my anxiety is triggered by something big, unexpected, unpreventable, old. But often it comes on slowly. The result of a pile of micro struggles, disappointments, thoughts, memories, sounds to my sensitive nervous system. And these, if I remain aware of them, I can easily wipe down—my hand to my chest, a slowing pace as I walk, a bit of knitting or intentional breathing or a cuddle or writing or a call to just chat. The awareness and micro action helps return me to beautiful, peaceful zero. To start over. To prevent the accumulation that for me can lead to anxiety.

It's nice, after all, to have a clean sink.