I understand in the deepest recesses of my soul that writing three (count ’em three) articles about inadvertently nip-slipping in public places may seem like overkill. And as much as I am never bored with the antics of my meat mountains (who am I kidding? They’re muffin mounds at best), I am sure that all of you lovely people have read enough about my shenanigans from these sin pillows.
The problem is, another “incident” just happened.
Like, yeah, just now — five minutes ago. Then without warning, once I sheathed the beasts in a loose-fitting tank top, my body propelled me to the laptop, opened it up and without any intentional thought process, I began recounting the story.
And seriously, you guys, I haven’t written basically anything all month so far! So how was my conscious mind supposed to stop the beautifully heinous words flying from my fingertips?!
I couldn’t. It’s that simple.
So as is the societal norm in these situations, I shall blindly forge ahead and ask for forgiveness for my blatant mammary missteps at a later date.
It was the damn shower window again. I knew that one day that shower window would best me. Still, I thought it would be a few years from now when I am fully grey-haired and frail and fall in the bathtub and not be able to get up and have to shout up to the opened bathtub window in my croaky crone’s voice, “Hello, is anyone out there — I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up.” Then some dashing young man from down the street would hear my cries and use his ten-foot ladder to crawl up to the window, and there I’d be sprawled gloriously on the porcelain for all to see.
Who knows — might still happen. Also, that scenario sounds like a great opening scene to the erotic novel I want to write one day.
Today, however, I was not as lucky to encounter anything so steamy. And by steamy, I mean I didn’t have the sweet, sweet cover of steam to hide my nipolas from on passers eyes.
Our neighbours are selling their house. I don’t have strong feelings about this fact one way or another. They have, however, had a lot of showings happening lately. This little factoid did not occur to me as I hopped in my shower at 2 PM this afternoon.
The shower felt good as it relieved me of the many worries that burden my ever-turning brain. Sometimes when I get into the shower, I just stand there unmoving and thoughtless for a good ten minutes. My husband hates this habit of mine and yells through the bathroom door, “What are you doing in there?! You’re using up all the hot water!” This doesn’t deter me, though; the shower is where I go to escape. Plus, today I was having a cool-temp shower because it’s been so damn hot ‘round these parts.
Hence having no steam to cover the juggerknocks.
And perhaps the refreshingly cool water and my nonexistent daydreaming were why I didn’t notice the real estate agent opening the back door to my neighbour’s deck. The deck that has a direct view into my shower. It may also be the reason why when I did happen to glance out the window and see the stunned faces of my potential new neighbours, I let out a hardy, manly scream — which they surely must have heard — and promptly ducked down beneath the window’s view.
This slick little move left me crouched at the bottom of my tub playing a dire guessing game of When Will The Strangers Stop Staring into the Window Where I am Currently Trapped and Naked.
In an attempt to save time, I decided to shampoo my hair while crouched on the tub’s floor.
Did not go well.
Sudsy soap immediately flung into my eyeball. Have you ever felt the sting of soap on your retina? Basically, all other worldly concerns leave you. You will do anything to rid yourself of the unending death pain of soap in your eye.
That’s why I flung my body upwards towards the pumping shower head, manically pawing at my eyes and trying my best to remove the agony of my Herbal Essences hell. As the sting began to lessen, it was then that I realized I was once again in full wabtastic view of the window.
Slowly I turned around, thinking that if I moved at a snail’s pace, perhaps the strangers in the next yard over wouldn’t notice me…again.
This thought was in vain. They were still on the deck, and it occurs to me now, as I write this, I am a terrible judge of determining elapsed time.
A part of me hopes those people buy the house next door. Like, I feel we wouldn’t even have to deal with any awkward icebreakers at that point, they’ve already gawked at my rack-pack, and as far as new neighbours go, you can’t get much closer than that.
*Side note: I understand that there are films and window coverings that I could purchase to avoid situations like this. I have been thinking about getting such a product for roughly 6 year now. Perhaps this little incident will spur me forward in my quest for bathtub privacy.
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This post was previously published on it’s just foam.
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You may also like these posts on The Good Men Project:
White Fragility: Talking to White People About Racism | Escape the “Act Like a Man” Box | The Lack of Gentle Platonic Touch in Men’s Lives is a Killer | What We Talk About When We Talk About Men |
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