Adding Frames to Plain Bathroom Mirrors: An Easy DIY Upgrade

I love visiting thrift stores and stopping by garage sales. I don't merely look at the merchandise for what it currently is. Instead, I look for what it could become. I scout out potential; I envision what could be. It's terribly exciting, you see, because I'm a sucker for good before-and-after pictures.

As we bring this year to a close, it's a perfect time to share some of my favorite projects and salvaged finds from the past year. Since I'm feeling festive, I'll share one each day for twelve days. We'll call it the Twelve DIYs of Christmas. (See what I did there?) Let's get started!

Twelve DIYs of Christmas

Day 1: Framing Bathroom Mirrors

When we bought our house 19 years ago, we went with contractor-grade finishes. One of those standard choices was using plain plate glass mirrors directly above the sinks in the bathrooms. This is economical and gets the job done, but it's not especially exciting.

Over the course of one summer weekend, I made a simple upgrade by adding inexpensive trim to create the appearance that our bathroom mirrors were framed. Here's the sink and mirror before:

And here's the bathroom after: 

Friends, this was so simple. I measured the perimeter of each mirror, bought inexpensive trim pieces from Lowes, mitered the corners, painted the trim, and then used a water-resistant glue to adhere the trim directly on top of the mirrors. In the initial steps, I laid out the pieces on our garage floor to check measurements (math!) and make sure each piece was sized appropriately.

When painting, I selected a dark gray, which I thought elevated the simple trim to look more expensive and polished than keeping it white. (This is Sherwin Williams' Iron Ore, which is a favorite deep charcoal shade.) Since the trim is placed directly on mirror, I painted both the front and back to ensure that any trim reflected from underneath would match the finished color.

Since I already had paint left over from another project, the total cost was under $25 — and that's for all three mirrors. Here's another before-and-after photoshoot of our powder room mirror to see the difference:

 

Here's to simple upgrades that deliver great results! 

Let Me Explain

As a child of the 80's, there are certain givens about my younger years. There's regrettable fashion choices, like jelly shoes, color-blocked windbreakers, and teased bangs. There's synthesized music, like Wham! and A-Ha. And then there are iconic movies, like The Karate Kid and The Princess Bride.

I must have watched The Princess Bride over a dozen times growing up. After my first viewing, I went to the library to check out the novel on which it was based. I spent hours learning how to hunt and peck the melody of its theme song ("Storybook Love") on my Casio keyboard.

Yesterday I unexpectedly found myself quoting it while attempting to avoid telling my friend a long-winded story. It's not Inigo Montoya's most famous line, but it's a fantastic line, nonetheless. When attempting to tell Wesley what he missed while he was "mostly dead," Inigo simply says, "Let me explain. No, there is no time. Let me sum up."

This sentiment resonates with me. This is how I feel when I write here after a longer absence. I could sum up whatever life events I recall from the past month. I could sum up the semester, which only has two more weeks of classes. I could I could sum up football games and house rentals, or the family schedule and preparing our yard for winter. I could sum up the Thanksgiving holiday. I could sum up a particularly odd stretch of family health adventures: mono and pneumonia, the stomach bug and potential Lyme's disease, and standard adolescent wisdom teeth surgery.

But sometimes you don't feel like summing up. Sometimes you feel like explaining.

So, let me take a moment to explain a simple moment when our family chose our Christmas tree this weekend. We loaded into our minivan and drove to Tuckaway Tree Farm, which sounds straight out of a Hallmark movie. As we came to a quick, amiable family consensus on which tree to cut, snow started to fall.

Snow! Snow falling while your family is cutting down a Christmas tree! 

Snow falling while your teenaged kids are laughing. Snow falling as you breathe the scent of Douglas fir. Snow falling as you watch a younger family with a small child in a snowsuit who sits in the sled designed to drag the trees back to the checkout station. Snow falling as you realize that you're well past that stage of dragging little ones on sleds. Snow falling as you look over the Christmas trees and your family, and all the years coalesce into small moments like this.

Weeks and months and years keep moving quickly. Time is like the tide; it's a force you can't stop. But when I feel like there's no time and I'm tempted to just "sum up" events of my life, perhaps — just perhaps — I instead need to slow down and quiet my head and heart. I need to explain to myself all the thoughts and feelings that are welling up inside me.

Let me sum up? No, there is no time. Let me explain.

I Said There'd Be Days Like This

I try to be a reasonably productive person. At a few points, I've even been described as "high capacity." Those moments went something like this:

Me: teaching four college courses, raising three children, and painting a bedroom over a random weekend.

Random Person: "You're high capacity."

However, in more recent years — this post-pandemic era, if you will — I've noticed varying degrees and instances of capacity loss. How much decline am I talking about, you ask? Well, on certain days, I still fire on all cylinders. Other days, I imagine a narrator speaking as if I were starring in a prescription drug commercial, "Are you suffering from moderate to severe capacity loss?" Cue camera panning as I shuffle despondently down my hallway while wearing a blanket draped over my shoulders.

That was the case yesterday, a rare obligation-less Tuesday. I had no classes to teach. No office hours to host. No work meetings to attend. No children were at home. I had one brief morning appointment, then a refreshingly light amount of grading earmarked for the afternoon.

You would think I'd enjoy the day immensely. That I'd knock out my work early, then fill the remaining hours with other fulfilling tasks or happy moments of leisure. That's why I was so surprised to reach the end of the day and have nothing to show for it. Nada.

Brain: "We had a day off. We must have been used it productively."
Me: "No."
Brain: "Well, then we must have rested."
Me: "Somehow, also no." 

What did I do? How did I fill the day? It still eludes me.

I putzed, but without pleasure. I dabbled on the computer, yet didn't manage cross off a single item from my to-do list. If I had ended the day feeling more refreshed than when I started, I'd count it as a success. But, sadly, that's not the case, either. I received no checks in any win column, neither rest nor achievement.

Did I read a book? No. Grade assignments? No. Exercise? No. Watch a movie? No. Clean a closet? No. Enjoy the fall day with a pleasant walk? No. Prepare a nice dinner? No. Connect with a friend? No.  

There are days like this. Blurry days, squandered days. Days when you exist to recover from earlier days. Days when you wither like you're suffering from a Victorian wasting disease. Weird days when you ironically have all the time in the world, yet no gumption or verve or plan.

Today, however, the sun rose again, as it reliably does. Things were different. I exercised. I taught three solid classes. I met with students, caught up on email, finished yesterday's grading, and planned an upcoming lesson. I made strombolis and assembled a salad. My kitchen already is cleaned for the evening. Apparently, my capacity has returned.

In light of these adjacent experiences, I need to remind myself of a few core truths:

One, there will be days like this. Both versions. High capacity and low capacity days are two sides of the same coin. Nobody — I mean nobody — always can function at full throttle.

Two, worth doesn't change depending on the version. Yesterday's version of me, while not ideal, was just as loved, just as valuable, as today's more productive version. God's love doesn't waver based on how much I achieve. His love is contingent on His faithfulness, not my own. It's a constant force, hearty and steadfast and underserved and inherent, regardless of my performance and productivity, or lack thereof. This is hard to fathom, yet good to remember.

And I said I'd love you though all those days.
-- God

Happy Little Rituals

Every evening in fall and winter, I brew a cup of tea. I'm a simple creature — and one of habit, I suppose, so even the flavor remains consistent. It's mint. Always mint. If I'm tired, mint refreshes. If stress lingers after a long day, mint soothes and settles. 

I've never felt worse after drinking a cup of tea.

I'm not sure when I started this ritual. The practice drops off each spring and isn't even a blip on my radar during summer, but once the sun begins to set earlier, once leaves are tinged orange, and once the edges of each day carry briskness in the air, it's time.

Dishes from dinner are put away and the kitchen is cleaned. I change from my work clothes into comfortable sweats. The shades are drawn, lamps turned on, and perhaps a good book is in hand. Beside me, simple and stable, is a cup of mint tea.

Tonight, in fact, as I contemplated whether I'd grade a few more assignments or call it a night (I called it a night), I wrapped my hands around the mug, warm from the seaming liquid inside, and felt at ease. It might merely be a cup of tea, but it feels like something more. It's a happy little ritual, one that closes a day with a small familiar gift.