Did Somebody Say Neurotic?

Our house in Indiana has two full bathrooms--one upstairs and one downstairs. On any given day, I'm much more likely to shower in the downstairs bathroom than the upstairs one. That's because I have to grab a five minute up-one-side-and-down-the-other shower while LO is napping, and because J has established squatter's rights to the upstairs bathroom. The downstairs loo is also used by any overnight guests we might have, but it's been several weeks since the last time we hosted someone.

I mention all of this because it is very important to this story for you to understand that I am pretty much the only person who ever showers downstairs.

Today, LO went down for his late morning nap at about quarter to 11, and I quickly grabbed a towel and jumped in the shower. These showers are exercises in luxurious hurrying--I turn the temperature up to a few degrees below "skin sloughing off", just like I like it, and then I try to see how quickly I can soap and rinse without the child alarm sounding. (That is actually when the greyhound's habit of howling when LO is crying comes in handy. I generally can't hear LO over the sound of the water running, but I can hear Obie. He's more useful than a baby monitor.)

Today, I had just finished shampooing my hair when I saw it: A long dark hair clung to the tile next to me.

I shuddered with disgust and immediately began the time-honored in-shower method of trying to remove clinging hairs from shower stalls. I cupped water in my hands and threw it at the hair, trying to get it to walk itself down the tile.

Let's pause for a moment and examine the inherent absurdity of this plan of action:

1. I had only five minutes to shower and this was wasting important cleansing time.

2. I am the only occupant of the house with long, dark hair.

3. Even if you include all of our houseguests, I am still the only person with long, dark hair who has ever used our shower.

4. After each shower, I clean out the drain of any long, dark hairs that might have detached themselves from my head, using my bare hands.

5. The single hair I was so assiduously waterboarding into submission would only end up joining his fellows in the drain.

Of course, none of this occurred to me as I was wasting my luxuro-hurry time. Because neuroses do not respond well to logic. It was only as I was picking up the drain hairs that I realized how ridiculous the entire exercise had been.

Tomorrow, I plan on sterilizing the nail clippers that I use to even up the fingernails I've chewed ragged.