Lieutenant Horatio Cane from CSI: Miami Hates My Boobies

I stayed up until 4:00 AM last night for no reason.  I was doing so well with going to bedearly, but then I just couldn’t control myself last night.  It’s like I binged on being awake andnow I’m all hung-over and I just realized that my left breast is bigger than myright breast, so that’s weird. 

I came to that realization because I had to take off myclothes to take a shower this morning and I needed something to do while thehot water got going, so I looked at my boobies in the mirror. 

Remember when I said that I don’t like showering?  That’s because showering forces me toacknowledge my body and all of its flaws and also because my shower is in theupstairs bathroom which is one of the “non-heated rooms” in my house becauseremember how Boyfriend and I have blankets over all of our doorways because wecan’t afford real heat?  This meansthat our living room is almost always nice and toasty but our bedroom andbathroom are cut off from the heat by the blankets so they just kind of settleto a temperature that is only marginally warmer than the temperature outsidewhich might not be a bad thing if I lived in Hawaii, but I don’t live in Hawaii. I live in Montana.

So basically, this is me taking a shower: 

I wait until my disgustingness outweighs my aversion toshowering, then I walk upstairs and turn on the hot water.  Then I go do something else while thehot water gets going – like read or take a walk or look at my boobies in themirror. 

If I make the unfortunate mistake of taking my clothes offbefore I turn on the water, I will have to wrap a towel around myself and siton the toilet lid shivering violently because I don’t want to go retrieve myclothes from the hallway where I left them because that would mean that I’dhave to move the box I put in front of the door to act as a barricade in theevent of an attack by the killer from the movie Psycho and also I don't want to let the killer from Psycho in if he's already out there.

I continue to sit on the toilet and shiver and hate the hotwater for taking so damn long and hate Boyfriend for never getting around toputting locks on the bathroom door because he doesn’t take my shower paranoiaseriously and he thinks I can just get over it but he hasn’t seen Psycho andhe doesn’t understand.

You knowwhat?  I haven’t even seen Psycho either.  I just saw the previews on some ad for a late-night horror movie marathon and then made up the rest. 

Anyway, once the hot water gets going, I always feel like Iam very near to actually being able to get in the shower, but I’m wrong.  I have to fiddle with the shower knobsuntil I get water that is not scalding but not prohibitively freezing to comeout of the shower head.  This isnearly impossible. 

What usually ends up happening is that I spend five minuteshovering over the tub darting my hand through the stream of lava water to tapthe cold water knob ever so gently and at first I think I’ve hit the sweet spotbecause the water-temperature becomes bearable for approximately three secondsbefore plunging into what can only be described as liquid ice.  Which should technically be just“water” but I assure you it is not. My shower reinvented chemistry. And when the water gets cold, I realize that I have tapped the cold waterknob too far – which is depressing because I don’t think I am capable of themotor control necessary to tap it any more gently. 

So most of the time I just end up settling on whatever temperaturewould kill me the slowest.   Istep into the ancient claw-foot tub, which is way too tall for someone of mystature and then I try to close the shower curtain because no matter how coldthe water is, the ambient air temperature is always colder.   The only problem is that theshower curtain does not close very easily.  It wraps almost all the way around the tub, but comes upabout three inches short.  The onlyway I can get it to close is to pull it inward and overlap it on itself whichleaves me about four-square feet of space to move around in and if I go outsideof my boundaries, I will be enveloped by the clammy, germ-infested showercurtain.  It kind of reminds me ofthe game “Operation.”  Do youremember that game?  It was the onethat made you think you’d die if a surgeon ever touched the edge of yourincision?  The one that made youthink your organs were just random pink blobs floating around in your body,waiting to be removed through any one of several gaping holes that magicallyappeared on your body for no reason? And somehow, you were lead to believe that if you successfully removedthe heart, the spleen, the large intestine and the knee-cap, you win and thepatient gets better even though in real life you’d probably be sued formalpractice and go to jail for manslaughter?  That game.  Butinstead of getting buzzed at when I fail to stay within the boundaries I amprovided, I get slimed by the nasty shower curtain. 

Then I actually have to wash my hair.  Remember when I told you guys that thepesticides I accidentally drank that one time tasted like Sauve “Ocean Breeze”shampoo?  I know what Suave “OceanBreeze” shampoo tastes like because I almost always get some of it in my mouthand/or eyes.  I try to close mymouth and eyes very tightly throughout the entire shampooing process, butinvariably I am startled by something which I automatically assume is thekiller from Psycho but which is probably just the shower curtain and I gaspand open my eyes and the shampoo goes in my eyes and mouth, blinding me againstmy potential attacker. 

So there I am, crouched in my battle stance, completelyentangled in my nasty shower curtain, pawing at my eyes and drooling out soapsuds, terrified that some fictional movie character from a movie that I haven’teven seen is going to stab me and I realize that I am just going to have to gothrough all of this again in a few days and suddenly life seems pointless and Idon’t even know who I am anymore. 

And that’s not even counting the part where I have to getout of the shower. 

Getting out of the shower is also terrifying because one of thesedays I am going to slip when I’m stepping out of my awkwardly tall bathtub andhit my head on the towel rod and then I’ll be found naked in a pool of my ownblood and Lieutenant Horatio Cane from CSI: Miami will be like “her left breastis larger than her right breast… what a freak!”  and then he’ll realize that he’s in Montana and technicallythat’s out of his jurisdiction so he’ll go back to Florida but not before hejudges me for being misshapen.

If I manage to exit the shower without accidentally endingmy life in a pool of blood and embarrassment, I have to put on lotion.  That might not sound so bad until youconsider that my economy-sized bottle of Suave Cocoa Butter lotion has beensitting in a room where the air temperature is only marginally warmer than theair temperature outdoors, which, at this time of year, is usually about ninedegrees Fahrenheit.  But I’m vain,so I’d rather coat my entire body in a layer of semi-solid lotion ice than risklooking scaly.

I don’t knowwhat this particular lotion is made out of, but whatever it is, it is insolubleon skin.  Try as I might, I cannotrub it in.   Also, I thinkit’s magical and infinite.  I’ve been trying to use up this lotion for two and a half yearsnow.  I made the mistake of buyingit in the summer of 2007 and it has outlasted my best attempts at getting ridof it so that I can justify spending money on new lotion.  I use the lotion at every chance Iget.  Door squeaking?  Coat the hinge with lotion.  Out of dish soap?  Maybe the lotion will work.   Probably not, but maybe.  I even set it out next to the bowlHalloween candy this year, hoping that some teenage hooligans would take it anduse it to vandalize something. Sadly, that never happened. 

Once I have covered myself with way too much lotion becausemaybe that will use it up faster but probably it won’t, I have to wash thelotion off my hands so that I don’t get it in my hair.

My sink has two faucets:  one of them makes lava water and theother one makes ice water.  Theyare not willing to compromise.  IfI want to wash my hands, I have to turn both the faucets on and move my handsback and forth between them really fast before my nerves can pick up thesensation of burning or freezing. To make it worse, the lotion is even less soluble in water than it is onskin.  I usually just end upgetting the lotion all wet and then using huge amounts of toilet paper to wipeit off.

Then I can finally put my clothes on, but remember how Ileft them out in the hall?  I haveto push the heavy box out from in front of the door and then run really fastpast the window in the hallway to avoid exposing myself to my neighbor’s twoyoung children.

Running really fast on a wood floor past a flight of stairswhen your body is coated in super-lotion is probably not the smartestlife-decision, but then again, neither is leaving your clothes out in thehallway when you go into the bathroom to take a shower.  But that’s what happens when you areimpulsive and incapable of thinking things through before acting. 

How I am not dead yet is beyond me.  I guess it’s probably because thekiller from Psycho can’t get past the moderately heavy box that I use tobarricade my bathroom door.