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“That’s when you know you’ve found somebody really special: you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably share silence.” ~Pulp Fiction

Sunday, July 27, 2008

God Was Behind My Loofah Today

I'm going to say something I don't think I'm alone on...I don't like to take showers.

I do it for the sake of society and my ego and I don't smell bad (except for one time in 8th grade when someone told me I had B.O. in the hallway in front of a boy I liked because I was new to the whole "deodorant" lifestyle).

It's just seriously a massive hassle.

First there's the decision on when to take a shower...which is always an internal battle for me. Can I make the days-worth of hairspray a little smoother for a couple more hours until I get home? Do I dare wait until morning? Would I be able to sleep feeling so...raunchy?

Sidenote--showering is extra unnerving for me since my shower is...unappealing at it's best. The shower in Psycho looks like the Hilton compared to this episode of CSI. Just think...something Leatherface would have had in his dungeon under his parents house where he hung his face-of-flesh to dry. Yep, that pretty much sums it up.

But, anywho, once you bite that bullet and you mosey your defeated stench of a body to the bathroom there's the undressing and catching a glimpse of your naked unposed/un-flattering body wobbling into the tub; then there's the washing (which I admit isn't as bad once the first few steps are taken); then there's the drying off, the wet hair, etc.

Then the process starts all over back on, deod0rant back on (thoroughly since the 8th grade embarrassment), the drying of the hair...blah-dee-blah.

However, then there are the days--like today for me--when you get back from a bar, or a campfire, or a one-night stand whatever the case may be and when upon entering your apartment and locking the door your clothes start peeling away. You drop your purse and leave a scattered remnants of the stench you carry and quite possibly throw a towel over the mirror so you don't see the makeup smeared to your ears or the Edward Scissorhands hair-do.

You scour and scour and when you come out it's like a rebirth in every sense. You peel the towel off the mirror and look at yourself with your hair wet no makeup on your face and realize that that is you. Every last mole, dimple of cellulite, crooked tooth, it's all you.

But, seriously, I get over it each day (I'll admit, sometimes a day goes by when I live a little French lifestyle) but today was a day I met my maker in the shower and it was almost a little too religious now that I think about it.

Next time I'll be more cynical.

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