A note to the reader: Today's column deals with a part of the human body that I really don't feel comfortable writing about in a frank and adult manner - not because I feel restrained by issues of taste or propriety, but because I keep giggling - so I have written it in code. Every place the name of this amusing (and frankly, disturbing) part of my anatomy appears, it has been replaced with that of a random noun. Feel free to read this with your legs crossed.
I accidentally hurt my wombat again this week.
I was visiting some friends and needed to change my clothes to go out to dinner with them. It had been a hot day and they asked if I would like to use their shower. Taking this as a subtle hint that I smelled a little like an armadillo farm, I took them up on their offer. I borrowed a towel and took my clothes into their bathroom, where I undressed and got into the shower.
I did this extremely carefully, in much the same way that one would step onto a rope bridge dangling over a volcano. In my experience, strange showers hate me and usually try to hurt me before I can hurt them. I was careful to plant each of my feet fully on the bottom of the tub and eyed the showerhead suspiciously, then carefully adjusted it away from my face. I like my face pretty well and didn't want it scalded. I turned on the water (cold water first), and adjusted it against my finger before lifting that little knob on the top of the faucet that engages the shower.
This shower was smarter than I expected however and sidestepped all my safety precautions easily. The water that came blasting out of the showerhead was about twenty degrees hotter than that coming out of the faucet and, of course, it was aimed directly at my tie rack. Nothing says revenge to a plumbing fixture like shooting your enemies in the nether regions with scalding hot water.
This was a shock of course, and really hurt a lot, but it wasn't much of a surprise. I've developed an unfortunate habit of hurting my ice cube tray over the past few years.
There was the time I was alone and hungry and feeling very casual and cooked dinner in an extremely "casual" state of undress. I managed to avoid hot grease splatters and sharp knives, only to slam my pocket fisherman in a drawer full of corkscrews.
Then there was the time I tried to take a bath in a pond and was assaulted by a fish (I maintain to this day that it was a blue marlin). It was either a very friendly fish, or peering through the murky water, it saw what must have looked like the largest grub ever and decided to seize the opportunity. It certainly seized my salt marsh harvest mouse and shook it around vigorously to stun it. (It worked - years later, I'm still stunned.)
Things have gotten even worse since I've been married. My wife, while one of the most mild-mannered women alive by day, has the reflexes of a shao-lin monk while asleep. Not all the time, but very occasionally, a random touch in the middle of the night will generate a no-nonsense knee or elbow exactly where I don't want it. Here is a fairly typical late-night exchange:
Me: Snore, snore, rustle, flop.
She: Hai-Ya! Kick.
Me: Aargh!
She: What?!
Me: You kicked me - right in the Senate sub-committee!!
She: Why would I do that? I might want to use that sometime! What were you doing, anyway?
Me: Sleeping!
She: (Nerves understandably rattled at this point) Well, don't do that!
Me: Fat chance of it now!
In fact, I've started taking a large book to bed with me lately. It makes it difficult to cuddle with my wife in any meaningful way, but it does protect my municipal zoning ordinance pretty well. Unfortunately, I can't take it into strange showers with me.
Aside from ruining the book, I'm worried about paper cuts.
