Hittin’ the Heavy Bag

I entered my apartment with the joyous anticipation of a fat kid standing in front of an ice cream parlor. It has been nearly seven years since I first left home. Finally, it has happened.

I have my own place.

I moved-in all of my things a few days ago, but this is my first night here. This is the night that makes it official. This is the night that makes it real. I disrobe and hop in the shower.

I adjust the water so that it exits the tub spout at the perfect temperature. I twist the center handle and the stream is diverted to become life-giving rain. Fresh comfort washes over me.

Shrinking like a midnight rose, my pupils constrict and I breathe deeply as my teeth sink into my lip. My skin ripples with the cold burning of a thousand needles, for I am now bathing in embers.

I dance around the tub screaming like a little girl while trying to avoid the boiling water. I am suddenly reminded of showering as a child while my brother flushed the toilet for fun. This sucks.

The temperature levels out, so I return to washing. It’s difficult to breathe as I choke on my testicles, because the water is now as cold as can be. My jig commences with the yelping and whining, and this is simply not fair. I didn’t touch the knobs or anything.

After about a half hour of battling my shower, I concede. I draw a bath and take my defeated seat in the tub like a six year old with a thyroid problem. I am a broken man.

First thing in the morning, I head down to the front office. I alert them to the fact that my shower flails wildly between the two extremes of hot and cold, and they seem genuinely concerned. They tell me they’ll “get right on it.”

A week later, I’m still rolling around in my tub like a walrus in a teacup. I am beginning to hate life, and I think I bruised my tailbone. At least I’m not constipated.

At 7:00am, I awake to the sound of hammers and drills coming from my bathroom. A contented smile spreads across my face, and I fall asleep through the racket. The walrus has met his demise.

I run the water to my desired temperature and stand for a few moments, staring at the center handle. I am Odysseus, dueling with Poseidon, and I am destined to triumph. I spin the knob and the water pours onto my face, unwavering. It feels perfect. It is also shooting out at more than five times its previous pressure. My first thought is of that Seinfeld episode where Kramer gets one of the shower heads from the zoo that they use to wash the elephants. This sucker is strong.

The combination of streams comes out about the size of a racquetball, and remains that way until it hits the tub. It doesn’t spread at all. I must say, I am more than happy.

I am singing some 80’s song as I soap my butt cheeks, and my eyes are closed when I turn around. The shower stream punches me directly in the sack, and I fall to my knees like a Boston altar boy. Choking back the vomit, I giggle at the thought of how this would look if someone was watching.

Engulfed in the bliss that is a working shower, this happened at least a half dozen more times within the following two weeks. Monkeys learn faster than I do.