The Shower

I'm married to a man who takes long showers. Showers that run the hot water in the house down to nothing but "Lake Michigan in February" cold. Showers that sometimes frighten me into thinking "He's been in there so long that I fear he may have had a heart attack or kidney stone issues or been rendered a burn victim so I'll just take a little look-see to be sure he's OK."

Now, I used to be a long shower kind of girl myself. Back in the day, I would luxuriate until the water ran stone cold and I was so beyond late for whatever event necessitated the shower, that I knew I'd have to rush through the hair drying/make-up applying/clothes choosing part of my routine. In about five minutes flat.

Those were the good old days, when the cost of the water bill didn't even register on my radar screen. And when I could ensure that I wouldn't exit the stall to find my children knee-deep in Crazy Glue and flour.

What really caused me to (mostly) outgrow this extravagant habit was an incident involving my best friend's Dad. He called the house one day when I was blissfully wallowing in the hot steam of the bathroom, letting me know, in no uncertain terms, that as I was taking my sweet time, he and his family were waiting for me to show up so the car could leave on the 45 minute trip to Houston. He said, and I quote, "If your ass isn't down here in five minutes, we're leaving without you."*

That was 1982.

Fast forward 28 years to today. When I took a long, hot shower for, maybe, the tenth time since I've had kids.

And, boy had I forgotten how good a hot shower can be for the soul.

I don't remember ever philosophizing "this is a good place for thinking" when I was a teenager. In fact, I barely remember rubbing two brain cells together when I was growing up in the 80's, except to ponder "Are these jeans tight enough?"** or "Does the piquant flavor of Tickle Pink trump anything? Seriously.the.best.stuff.on.Earth."***

But, back to my shower of late: in fact, I did some wicked good thinking in the stall that morning. So much so that I had the audacity to take ANOTHER ONE just two days post hence.

I know what you are thinking: "The nerve of that woman! What's she going to do next? Eat her salad with the long-pronged fork?**** SHEESH."

There really isn't much more to this post than that. I've rediscovered the joy of a shower that is wasteful.

HMMM. Not that I've put that sentence down, this no longer sounds like a good idea.

And, that, is the bummer of writing. You clarify your thoughts, distill them to a few words, and learn the truth of what you are doing.

SHOOT.

*"Old Weird Harold" was what we called him. I think the phrase "That boy can cuss a blue streak" was coined after someone overheard him swearing at one of his employees.

**1980's, when Jordache jeans had to be zipped with the hook of a bent metal hanger. Not the 1880's, like my kids think.

***An uneducated palate is a horrible thing. About three weeks ago I saw a bottle of this stuff on the shelf of a grocery store in a hick town we were traveling through. I about lost my lunch just at the sight of it.

****Maybe.