I woke up this morning and heard my capable wife taking sufficient care of a turbulent toddler morning. I snoozed. For 35 minutes. It was terrific. I’m a wonderful man.
Headed for the shower, still in a sleepy daze because fat people with questionable lung function don’t sleep well. Washed my hair, scrubbed the rest of my flabby caucasian acreage, washed my face, then stopped. I looked at the tiled wall, cocked my head and looked at the shelf containing my shower fluids and back at the tile. I couldn’t for the life of me remember if I’d already washed myself. I mean, it’s a disgusting task that you’d think would scar a man’s mind enough to make an impression, but I wasn’t sure. I sniffed my arm, but couldn’t detect a scent of Ivory Aloe body wash. There may’ve been a faint turkey gravy odour, but I’ve scrubbed for years and it ain’t coming off. Will these hands ne’er be clean?! (That’s a line from MacBeth, you uneducated muggles). I proceeded to examine the body wash scrungie and saw sudsy remnants. Ah ha. Conclusive. I already washed! Dirty deed done, I got the hell outta there. Even I can’t stand the sight of myself.
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