*Preface: Inasmuch as Poor Kyle and I are married (i.e. legally lawfully husband and wife), we have, on occasion, been known to take our morning showers together. Might I add that this is not so much a sexual ritual, as it is economical. In fact, it’s neither comfortable nor relaxing–as showers should be–because Poor Kyle likes his water warm, whereas I prefer mine nigh upon scalding. Also, this house’s water pressure is moderate to poor, so there’s really not even enough to go around. Only one of us can stand in the stream at any given time. Alas…such are the sacrifices we make to save the planet’s dwindling fresh water reserves…
*Face: Sunday morning. Our church services begin at 11:00 a.m., so this would have been around 10. In the shower (which is a bathtub/shower combination) fully clothed (just trying to keep this G-rated). I was the lucky one under the spray of water. With my back to the faucet, I crouched down to scrub in between my toes. While there, I went ahead and scrubbed Poor Kyle’s toes too (all in the name of efficiency, you see).
Upon returning to my full upright and standing position, I managed to catch my lower back on the bathtub’s protruding faucet. Hard. Letting out a yelp of pain (okay, I screamed, and I might have even cursed), I swung my face around to see what sort of damage I’d done (to my body, not the !&#@^* faucet). It was bad. I couldn’t see it very well, on account of not having a neck that rotates 180 degrees like that of an owl, but I saw red. I knew instantly that I’d drawn blood, and though the wound wasn’t in an easy-to-diagnose location, I was sure there was a massive chunk of flesh–my flesh–careening through the sewage system beneath our house.
Meanwhile, Poor Kyle was asking, “Are you okay?” over and over, with no solid response from me. I couldn’t answer questions, you see, because there was blood. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was there. Coming out of my body. Washing down the drain. I started to feel very dizzy, and told him so. How did Poor Kyle respond? He laughed. He didn’t believe me, even though he knows how I handle blood [poorly].
No matter. I passed out anyway, to the sound of my husband’s giggles, and when I came to, I was nearly on the floor of the tub, in the arms of my now-anxious Poor Kyle. The water was still streaming out of the shower head, and I was very disoriented, you see, because imagine how strange it would be to wake from a seemingly days-long slumber, naked–er…fully clothed–in the running shower. It was disorienting indeed. When finally I realised I’d fainted, I wanted nothing more than to remove myself from the scene of the crime. But Poor Kyle seemed to think it would be more effective for me to rinse the conditioner from my hair and then exit the shower.
Having done so, and growing tired of Poor Kyle’s recount–amidst peals of laughter–of my pass-outage, I shakily announced I was getting out. Poor Kyle escorted me from the shower to the bedroom, where finally it hit me: I was bleeding from my back, I’d passed out like a wuss, Poor Kyle had to catch me, and he was laughing about it still, five minutes later.
I must have looked like an idiot. So to make it better, I started to cry. As if I really thought that would help.
“Stop laughing at me!” I whined through my crumpled face and streaming tears. “Stop it!” This was bad. I knew I’d looked foolish when I passed out, because Poor Kyle had reenacted the scene, and really: I looked foolish. But to be crying on top of that…I was so embarrassed of myself, that all I could do was cry harder.
My pleas fell on deaf ears, because, of course, I must have really looked a sight.
After ensuring that I was secure and safe, Poor Kyle meandered back down the hallway to finish his shower. Meanwhile I, having endured more than any person should have to suffer on a Sunday morning, put on my underwear and crawled mournfully back into bed…
…where I stayed for three minutes until Poor Kyle finished his shower and apologised (still giggling) for laughing at me in my time of travail.
I only forgave him because he’d shaved his face for me [actually he’d shaved his face because it was the Sabbath, but he told me it was for me].
*Post face: Upon recounting the sordid tale to Poor Kyle’s parents, my father-in-law said curiously, “Camille, I know a lot of people who pass out at the sight of blood, but you’re the only person I’ve ever met who passes out at the thought of the sight of blood.”
Yes. That’s my claim to fame.