Shower shows signs of life

For this week’s column you need to step into my shower.

Have more tantalizing words ever been spoken?

There are things happening in there that people don’t understand.

And by, “people,” I mean Husband.

This became evident last weekend as we were considering what to do with our Saturday night.

We were both pretty sweaty and gross after a couple of workouts and some house projects.

“Just go take a shower,” he suggested around 4:30 in the afternoon, “And we’ll figure it out later.”

How quaint.

“I need to know what kind of shower to take,” I replied.

“There’s more than one kind of shower?” This was genuinely news to him.

“There is the ‘Don’t Wash My Hair’ kind of shower and the ‘Wash My Hair Which Means I Need to Blow It Dry’ kind of shower.’ They are two very different propositions and time commitments.”

He looked at me with that half “Whatcha talkin’ about, Willis?” half “How can I still be discovering new things so many years into our marriage?” look.

In another time, I might have chalked this up a simple “The things men don’t understand about women,” division.

I now realize that is too simple of a way to look at the equation of what happens in someone’s shower, their grooming efforts.

I do have male friends who care more about their grooming habits than I do even on my most primped-up day.

I want you to know, Dear Reader, that in this time of getting enough vaccine for everyone who wants one, trying to make it in a pandemic economy, rescheduling weddings for the umpteenth time, what kind of shower one takes might seem trite, not worthy of space in this newspaper.

And,

And, I would argue it is everything.

It is a sign of life.

A potential sign anyway.

Like little quarantined caterpillars, we are beginning to emerge from our year-long shells.

Just the thought of going out on a Saturday night, is news, yes? Alas, that is as far as it got. A simple thought.

That “Wash my hair and blow dry” shower was sounding like a pretty heavy lift.

My hair scrunchie and ampleroomed jogger sweatpants were coaxing in my ear, “Wouldn’t you rather keep hanging out with us?”

What an easy mark I was. Am. We stayed in.

Between you and me, the only hair that has been washed since Saturday night belongs to the dog.

She took off Sunday morning fulfilling her dream to chase deer across the muddy marsh for two hours.

The words, “Butter, Come!” were completely cleansed from her out-of-her-mind dog brain.

She finally came home caked nose to tail in marsh mud goop.

I had but one thing to say to her,

“You need to step inside my shower.”

Have more horrifying words ever been spoken?

Pup would say most definitely not.

The scrubbin’ that took place in there?

I think you understand.