My laundry room is stuck in the 1950s. It’s clear that the architects who designed my house had not imagined that a laundry room would ever be anything but utilitarian. It’s uninsulated. The drain pipe from the tub in the bathroom upstairs runs from wall to wall about 10 inches below the ceiling. Copper pipes that bring hot water from the basement water heater cross just a few feet away. The under workings of the commode are above the utility sink. The single pane window has a metal frame with a handle that, when unlatched allows the top to drop inward. Nearly every wall is unfinished. A bare bulb sits in the center, mounted on a beam, with a pull chain that doesn’t always work to turn the light on.

Back in the early 1980s, the previous owners moved one of the original kitchen cabinets into the laundry room for storage. I keep my iron, spray starch, screw gun, and a bag full of screws, outlet covers, allen wrenches, and various other things that came off or out of something but seemed too significant to toss. They screwed two metal strips that allow you to put adjustable shelf brackets on the wall near the door. The shelves are handy. I keep extra rolls of toilet paper and paper towels there.

The room is cramped. It would have been about six by nine feet, were it not for the chimney and duct work to the right just as you come in the door. The dryer is beside that and the utility sink in the corner on the other side of the dryer. The washing machine sits diagonally off the left corner of the dryer, so that you have to open the dryer door before unloading the wet clothes from the washing machine. Otherwise, you have no space for the door to swing with you standing there in front of both machines like a king in check mate. I don’t think a king ever washed clothes.

I have owned this house for years without turning my focus on the laundry room, despite the fact that I rather enjoy doing laundry. And I love beautiful spaces. Making a laundry room over seems decadent—a luxury I can ill-afford. But look at it…