review of my shower
May 29, 2007
Let’s just get this out in the open right now: I Love Showering. I know not everybody feels this way. My 8 year old son will fight tooth and nail to avoid the shower, even if he’s just run through a swamp and then played tackle football in a grove of cottonwoods. Kim will say things like “I don’t want to go for a bike ride, I just showered.” As if, you know, there’s a limit. As if showering reduces your life expectancy somehow.
Well not me. I LOVE showering. What is better than standing under a stream of hot water for like, an hour? I mean, besides the obvious things. And yes, the usual obvious things. Biking. Skiing. And that one thing. But those things just make the post-activity shower even better.
So when we decided two years ago to move from Pleasant Grove, UT, to Suncrest, in Draper, UT, and we decided to build our house (well, not ourselves, cuz, well, I, um, I’m not really what you’d call “handy,” but to tell the builder how to do it for us), the most exciting part for me? Not a big theater room (don’t care, I’m happy with my crappy 25 inch TV I the family room and the really, really crappy little 15 inch in my bedroom. Seriously. Don’t care.). Not a hot tub on the deck (though, yes, that would be very nice, taking notes here). Not the three car garage (wait, that is waaay nice, mostly because I don’t have three cars, and now I have much room for much stuff, but no, that’s not what got me the most excited).
No. I was most excited that I got to get two shower heads and some body sprays in my new master bedroom shower. Heaven. So my shower in my new house is next to the big-ass tub which is a bit raised and looks out at Lone Peak, Box Elder, and Mt. Timpanogos. The shower is tiled with nice earth-toned 10 inch tiles, and a glass front (this should be international law, all showers should have glass fronts, everybody should be able to watch their spouse shower and soap up).
I’ve been in my new house for just over a year, which seems like plenty of time to have let the majesty soak in, and for me to have identified all the things I love about my new shower palace. And here’s the thing: I’m not happy. Not only am I not happy, but I’m disappointed. Not just disappointed, but disappointed like Kevin Kline in A Fish Called Wanda, when he opens the safe, and it’s empty. That kind of disappointed.
Oh sure, my shower has two heads and body sprays. You might be thinking, hey dipweed, all I have is a barrel and a bucket. Well I don’t care. I’m 40 years old, and my time has come. I NEED a rockin’ shower. And I thought this was the one. But it’s not. It’s not the one.
How has my shower disappointed me? Let me count the ways.
No Sex in the Shower
You would think, two heads, body sprays, door that locks, iPod Hi-Fi, the sex would just be crazy. Sorry to tell you, but no. I failed to plan for this properly. I have a tile shelf by one of the heads, the Main Head, if you will, for shampoo and other shower accoutrements, but somehow, Somehow, I failed to put either a bench or set of handles in the shower. And as neither of us is either a gymnast or particularly strong, there you go, case closed. I will now swallow shattered glass.
No View from the Shower
You may have stopped reading already, seeing as who wants to read the ramblings of a stupid lunatic who can’t even put a bench or handles in his new custom shower, but in case you’re still here, this may put you over the edge: I have to open both the door to my bathroom and the curtains on the far south side of my bedroom to see the view I paid all that money for from my shower. And that view I bragged about from my slightly raised tub? Fantastic views from the tub. Unfortunately I only glassed the doors of the shower, and not the wall that separates the shower from the tub. So not only can I not watch my wife soap up in the tub while I’m in the shower, or vice versa, but I can’t see Lone Peak from the shower. I can only see the Main Head and some beautiful earth-toned 10 inch tiles. I have a college degree, and run a business. Please don’t tell my boss.
I Don’t Care About the Body Sprays
During construction of my new house, when we would visit the house and everything was just framed, or just drywalled, or whatever, I would sometimes stand in my shower, and pretend to bathe in the orgasmic pleasure that was to be my new standing paradise. I had body sprays and two heads. The only thing I worried about? That once we took occupancy of the new house, I would incur a $1,000 per month water bill, suffer skin lesions, and never sleep in my own bed.
The reality? Body sprays are no big deal. Oh, sure, for a month or two, I would come home from skiing or a bike ride, and sprint upstairs, barely removing my clothes before I was in the shower and living the high life. But any more? Yawwnnnn. I never even turn them on anymore. In fact, my 8 year old has even lost interest in the body sprays, which used to be the only way we could lure him into cleaning himself, thus keeping him from being expelled from his elementary school for looking and smelling like “Pigpen,” the least hygienic of Charlie Brown’s friends. But not now. Now, the body sprays lie dormant, like an old World’s Fair fixture, and the only time the double heads get used is if we’re in a hurry and Kim and I need to shower at the same time. And even then, remember, we’re in a hurry. Which is the only reason we’ve found ourselves in there together in the first place. And yes, I realize I have failed men everywhere.
The Tiles Are Uneven
I don’t know if this is like the wicked bugs I used to find in the software at Novell back in the day, when I’d go to the programmer triumphantly and point out that I didn’t think the form fill function was really supposed to cause sterility, only to have him try it out and say No, WAD. (Working As Designed.) Are my earth-toned 10 inch tiles supposed to be uneven? Because I’ve got a beef with it. I’ve showered in lots of places. In fact, I could make a list of some pretty interesting places I’ve showered. Moscow. Budapest. London. France (although, you can’t really call that showering, since it’s really more of a tub with a flexible spigot). Chile. Mexico. Cleveland.
Once, I was showering in a mountain hut high in the Austrian Alps, and as I got out, I stubbed the ball of my foot (yes, I know, most people stub toes, I stubbed the whole damned ball of my foot!) on the lip of the shower basin. Hurt to walk for like a week.
Well, you would expect that kind of thing from those places. But would you expect to regularly injure yourself in your own brand new wicked awesome shower? Almost every week, I get a bruise from shuffling my feet in my shower, and catching the lip of one of the tiles. Now don’t go telling me I’m some kind of clumsy spaz. What, you think I don’t know this? I know this. But this is my own shower in my own bedroom in my own home. This was supposed to be the crown jewel. And NO! I will NOT calm down! You calm down!
So What Now?
I had made a deal with Kim that we could live in this house forever, that I never had to move again. I’m not the moving type, I like where I live, I want to stay here. Forever. But this? This might just be it, might be the trigger that gets me to go, sets us on the road to that wandering gypsy life.
Or, I could, you know, just redesign the shower.
My shower, sadly, despite my hopes for some kind of Greg Louganis or Nadia Comanici type of score, gets a paltry 3 out of 11. Not since the American soccer team in the 2006 World Cup have expectations been so high and the performance so pathetic. I’m disappointed.