I have the unfortunate predicament of having to take a shower after my wife Anya has vacated the bathroom. You see, she leaves an hour before I do so when I enter the bathroom to do my morning constitution I am entering HER bathroom, the way she likes it. I am entirely too groggy to even represent a sentient being as I stumble into the shower, completely forgetting (once again) that she recently procured a high velocity shower head that at one time during its product development stage must have been considered for stripping paint or for dispersing a riotous assembly. There are several settings on this shower and in my incapacitated state I never check the setting. Now mind you, there are several settings on this shower head that I like such as "summer rain", "mist", etc and then there is her favorite setting "massage" which is nothing of the sort. Now when I think of massage, I conjure up images of relaxation, the soft, enquiring hands of a 21-year-old Scandinavian woman, and possibly an exchange of cash. Unfortunately the truth of the matter is that the setting could be more accurately described as "beaten by thugs." Adding to the misery is her penchant for numbingly cold showers as if obeying some ancient protocol of her ancestral past in which the weak and infirmed were weeded out through tests of extreme endurance. Today, I stumbled sleepy-eyed into the shower, wrenched it on, and was immediately hit by a roar of icy water travelling at one thousand miles an hour, immediately transforming my face into a pose primarily reminiscent of test chimpanzees in the Mercury space program when encountering severe G-forces upon re-entry.
Five seconds later (after my eyes have dilated, my lips curled and my testicles have disappeared) I am able to adjust the settings to a reasonable level that will not induce pneumonia. Now it is time to lather what little epidermis has not been pulled away. I absent-mindedly grab the soap and began spreading a film of what can only be described as having the iridescent sheen of a sunlit pond. At this point I realize I have grabbed one of her herbal soaps whose claims to promote a "calm tranquility" is only matched by its ridiculously exorbitant price, as if some indigenous tribe deep within the Amazon brought forth a herbal extract made from the rarest of tropical plants. She has bought a dozen of these soaps from small upscale stores, each bar representing a desired emotion or some facet of relaxation. Unfortunately though, my only experiences with these soaps present one of bewildered terror as I question why my skin has suddenly turned taupe. It seems I always end up getting the soap that markets itself as "mind altering peyote."
I try to find my essentials (such as a razor) among a staggering array of lotions, gels and lubricants, each with some specified purpose; for the life of me I have not the foggiest notion, outside of a porn setting, what these are used for. In addition there are enough fragrances and perfumes to gas a small battalion into paralysis.
Forty-five minutes later, as I enter my place of occupation I get a phone call from her.
"I hope you did not mess up the bathroom again."