Meccanized

You know what really grinds my gears?  My shower.

Sure, it looks innocent enough, with its inviting yellow tiles and powder blue and green curtain — it’s like a home away from home in my bathroom.

The reality, however, isn’t so comfortable.

Whenever I go to clean off, I never know if I am going to be scalded or frozen.  It is like a choose your own adventure story without the choice — the water will feel ok when I get in (the damn thing lures me into a false sense of security every time) and then bam — out of nowhere, I could be taking a dip in the River Styx or going for an invigorating swim in the Arctic Circle.

And, in addition to the bipolar water temperature (do you think there is a Halcion for plumbing?), it is always fun to see what injuries I inflict upon myself in the mad scramble to change the temperature dials.  Things like stubbed fingers and near-broken toes as I knock the shower caddy off the shelf in an attempt not to boil myself.

This morning was particularly notable.  I trashed my knee on the edge of the tub as I swerved to dodge the pellets of ice falling from the shower head.  As I lay in a heap on the floor of the bathroom, clutching my leg, my tiny body covered in the shower curtain that I accidentally took down with me, I half expected to see a polar bear lumber by me on the way to take a bath.

Shower, the only consistent thing about you is the sheer misery I feel every time you get me in your clutches.  Consider yourself Meccanized.