What is it with bathrooms?
I seem to have had shockingly bad luck with bathrooms. First there was the bathroom with the glass shower screen that exploded and sprayed me with glass missiles, then there was the CSI Crime Scene bathroom of our English home renovations and now…
Now we have the shower of doom.
The shower in our new-to-us rental house is not large. It’s obviously an after-thought. Crammed into what was probably once a cupboard space the only shower upstairs is in a plastic capsule of about coffin proportions.
Perhaps someone decided it would improve the home’s marketability if there was a shower upstairs and so they hastily installed a plastic tube, hung a tap over the top of it and called it a ‘renovated shower’. Or maybe, given its coffin proportions, it was added as a desperate last minute thought after they’d carefully constructed a plan to kill their nearest and dearest.
When they needed somewhere upstairs close to the carving knives to wash off the blood…
Taking a shower in this ode to the 70s and pastel vanities, is a tricky affair. There’s the obvious problems associated with getting into the space that is only one body width and not much taller than me, and I’m five foot 1 and a bit!
But the problems don’t stop there.
Once in the shower the temperature of the water bursting forth from the shower head runs to dangerous extremes. It’s one small half click between risking Mongolian BBQ or Arctic hypothermia. The stress of finding the right temperature on its own, is enough to threaten your cardiac health.
As for washing….
Taking your life in your own soapy hands that is.
I managed to negotiate the water temperature and slide into the shower the other day, only to realise that the shower body soap was lying on the floor in the corner. Without thinking, or considering the peril I was about to face I nonchalantly bent down to pick it up. It was slippery and hard to grasp and as I clutched onto it for dear life I rose from my bent position way too quickly. On the way up I knocked the shower handle with my head. Stunned with the knock I fell forward under the stream of water. Which was now the temperature of volcanic lahar. Squealing with pain I slid my pink bod out of the way.
A little bit of negotiation with the knob later, the temperature was reset and it was time for me to shave my legs. To do so, I need to get into a position that would make a circus contortionist wince and a gynaecologist’s job considerably easier. Then I need to take the blade of death and slide it along my leg with deep faith as I cannot see in the murky, misty shadows. My bent body blocks out the only light source and I can’t see whether the hairs have been sliced and diced, I can only feel for stubble with my other hand. It’s a very delicate process in the slippery when wet conditions.
I thank God trips to Brazil are no longer in fashion! Can you imagine how terrifyingly dangerous it would be perfecting a close shave ‘down there’ in such perilous conditions? Even styling your nether region’s kiss curls into a bikini line is dodgy.
I’ve read a couple of articles recently that claim that women are forgoing their trips to Brazil in favour of rocking a 70s vibe down there, as Gwyneth Paltrow so delicately put it. I’m kinda relieved to hear it really. I forget now. What was so attractive about ingrown hairs and deforested ladygardens with landscapes blighted by deep trenches and furrows of bruises?
I explained to my daughters the other day that there was once a time when women didn’t do anything more than tidy around the edges of their ladygardens so that the ‘greenery’ didn’t spill out beyond the togs-line. They listened agog.
“And then we went through this phase in my thirties when it was all about Brazil and Hollywood.” I told them.
Still agog, they nodded.
“So what was the bit that was left. What was that called?”
“That was called the landing strip.”
We left the conversation there.
Thank God for the seventies and for retro fashions. I may just survive my daily ablutions in the shower of doom now, not to mention delicate discussions with my daughters.