"Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now."
My Boog Pages
Tuesday, February 18
Three Little Words
Today, I discovered the three most frightening words in the English language. No, not "You are fired" (been there, done that). Not "I love you" (for committophobes). Not "Internal Revenue Service". Not even "Hillary Rodham Clinton" (equal time for liberals: "George W. Bush"). Instead, I give you:
No Hot Water
Apparently something's wrong with the water heater at my apartment. I learned this after holding my hand under the bathtub tap until it turned blue, vainly hoping for just a little warmth. But I was denied even that. Insane thoughts ran through my head, just like when I was out of work ("Is bank robbery really that hard?"). The thoughts this time were little nuggets like, "Maybe I can heat some water on the stove. That will only take an hour." Or, "There's a cheap hotel just down the street." Or even, "Rome was the greatest civilization ever, and they didn't bathe every day!"
But in the end I faced facts: I had to take a cold shower.
It's not easy to bathe when your main goal is to avoid getting wet. First I pointed the shower head straight down, giving me a little extra splash-free room at the back of the tub. This was a problem because the shower was made for people five-foot-five and under, and I'm six three. Under the best of circumstances I have to squat down to wash under my arms. After today I'm ready to become a contortionist with the Cirque du Soleil.
Next I made sure to stand with my feet all the way at the sides of the tub, where it's a little higher, so I wouldn't have to stand ankle-deep the whole time. It's just not fair that the soles of your feet are so sensitive. I mean, that part of your body spends more time touching the ground than any other. Since I sit down all day I guess it could be worse. My ass could be ticklish.
Finally I was ready to begin washing. To do this I stuck the body part to be cleaned under the spray for, oh, a tenth of a second, then jerked it away and rubbed soap vigorously over it, trying to work up a lather. This went pretty well until I washed my hair. I ducked my head under the spout to get it wet, and when I straightened up, a freezing jolt shot down my back. On the plus side, all that shivering gave me a good workout.
Clean again, I shut off the water and embraced my towel like a long-lost lover. Never has terrycloth felt so sinfully sensuous. Not to mention the towel rack hangs right under the vent, so my towels are always preheated. I rubbed that thing on myself until A) I exposed layers of skin I never knew I had, and B) I made up an adult film for towel-torture fetishists.
The ordeal is over, for now. Maintenance is supposed to have the boiler fixed by this evening. I now understand why pilots who crash in freezing water have only 7 minutes to live (after 2 minutes I was ready to call for Search & Rescue). And I'm sure my best friend will come out of hiding. Someday.
