Another Psycho in the Shower

Let me start by making a simple request: As difficult as it might be, please try and resist the urge to picture me naked for the next five minutes. Normally I’d just refrain from telling my tale in such a public forum, but this is a story that begs to be told. Plus, let’s face it, I was lying about the normally refraining part. So rather than picturing me in my birthday suit, try imagining me in an entirely different kind of suit—maybe your grandmother’s swimsuit—the one with the ruffles and skirt. While you’re at it, go ahead and imagine copious amounts of cellulite on the backs of my thighs. That’s actually closer to reality and also serves as punishment for those of you who insist on picturing me without clothes. Okay, so it’s settled then: I am in the shower, wearing Granny’s swimsuit. And a shower cap.

It all started when my dog gave the universal signal for “Mom needs a shower” by moving to the other end of the couch. As far as showers go, this one wasn’t anything special. I was unimpressed with the water pressure, and overall it was shaping up to be just your average bathing experience; that is, until one little bubble of soap slipped off my forehead and directly into my eyeball.

Everyone knows that familiar sting—the level of pain falling somewhere between ice cream headache and bear mauling. Usually a spritz of water and a bit of dramatic whining does the trick. I only wish that’s where my story had ended. Of course, if it had ended there, y’all would’ve been all like, “You made me stop playing Words with Friends for this?” Fortunately (for the sake of this story, at least), that beastly bubble set off a series of events so spectacular, it can only be described as Rube-Goldberg-ian in proportion.

As the sting kicked in, I dropped the soap (insert appropriately juvenile joke here) and for some reason thought it necessary to pick it up before rinsing out my eye. Why I imagined I could do this while almost completely blind is a mystery and rather predictably led to me cracking my head on the soap holder. When I lurched back in shock, I slipped, and an errant elbow set off an avalanche of shampoo and conditioner bottles, two washcloths, a razor, some facial cleanser, a scrubby sponge, my dog’s toothpaste (don’t ask), and a rubber ducky with devil horns. This endless river of bathing detritus pummeled me about the ribcage and shoulders as my concerned poodle came running to see the sideshow.

While I began composing a witty tweet in my head, someone in the neighborhood flushed a toilet, and I was scalded back to reality. Blinded and burned, I shakily exited the shower while Dexter T. Poodle looked on curiously. As far as eventful bathing goes, this one was right up there with the time I decided to shower after taking an Ambien, but that’s another story for another time. Meanwhile, please excuse me while I go and return this suit to Grandma. You know how she gets about her swimwear.