My Shower is a Dream! (An Epilogue)

26 Aug

On Wednesday morning I showered in my very own shimmering shower.

On Tuesday, the morning after the clog, I showered at my neighbor’s, and I think she sensed my jealousy-mixed-with-gratitude because her shower was a pristine white, and drained with ease.

But Wednesday, ah, Wednesday, it was all my own again. My shower is cleaner than it has ever been, and like my neighbor’s, now drains like a dream. Like it hasn’t since over a year ago when I first moved in. I have apparently become desensitized to showering in a pool of standing water mixed with a striking combination of soap, conditioner, and shaving cream residue three-fourths to my knees. As appealing as this sounds, please do not try this at home. I forgot how good, how clean it feels to shower and not do that, but rather have the water stop where it’s supposed to, neatly under the palm of my foot.

And here’s the thing. The reason my shower is so clean is this: I did not resist-slash-avoid it. I did the opposite; I did that ever-so-elusive next indicated thing. I came home on Tuesday night to a clear drain, and a bathtub full of caked-on-not-going-anywhere-anytime-soon gunk. I bought a very strong cleanser that contains bleach. I scrubbed. I went through at least 3 pairs of latex medical gloves, while simultaneously, dizzy from fumes, I watched a really great (one of my favorites, in fact) episode of Sex & the City where Carrie has a panic attack while trying on a wedding dress, and then, after one last night curled up with Aidan, sleeping on the floor together, heart-wrenchingly breaks it off with him (Oh, Carrie, I hear you, Sister). It was up there with that moment in Good Will Hunting where Matt Damon and Minnie Driver are fighting in her dorm room at Harvard and she’s all like: “I love you. I want to hear you say that you don’t love me, because if you say that then I won’t call you, and I won’t be in your life.” And Matt Damon looks at her, stone cold, and says: “I don’t love you,” and then walks out, while Minnie Driver doubles up crying like she’s been punched in the stomach, which really, if you think about it, she has. God, that gets me every time.

But back to my shower – it (like life!) is not perfect, but that’s okay, as I’ve pretty much come to terms with the fact that perfection is just this giant myth and that chasing it is, at best, a giant waste of time. There are some small tenacious flecks of ew/goop/muck here-and-there, but those fumes were strong, my scrubbing elbow was starting to ache, I couldn’t face a fourth pair of latex medical gloves, and I just felt so bad for Carrie. And now that I am on this kick of doing my next indicated things, I feel confident that I will get them off in the next go-round in the not-too-distant future.

And overall, it’s like a commercial for dentures, whitening strips, or breath mints, where that sparkle of light glints (ding!) off some exceedingly good-looking person’s third-from-center tooth. That first morning, reunited with the good and pure essence of what my bathtub was always meant to be, under all that dirt and debris clouding its true nature, I left 15 minutes late for work because I kept ripping back the shower curtain to gaze lovingly at its pearly whiteness.

Overall, things are looking good.

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