Showers are an adventure. I have some fond and not so fond memories of shower encounters. For instance my friend has a tiny, miniscule, claustrophobic box shower where there is no light and every movement causes a bump and a bruise. It has a curved pink enclosure over the top of a hip bath which threatened to overflow if I so much as dropped the soap. The designer must have decided on a luxury caravan model to fit the equally tiny bathroom. Then there was the bachelor shower which in desperation I braved. I kept my runners on and stood under the water without too much movement. My skin made desperate attempts to crawl out of the shower without me but I forced it to stay and together we became cleaner than the shower recess with its live green cultures and strange gelatinous masses. Or the: “Oh my god! Ew, that darn thing is cold and sticky!” The wet shower curtain hitting my warm skin keeps trying to grope me like a live thing, kind of shower. The piece de resistance though was a shower in an inner city Sydney motel. Vast expanses of glass and gleaming chrome took up more than half the generous bathroom. I imagined a whole family fitting in that shower. The door was twice the width of an ordinary room door and the shower head as round as a dinner plate. I could dance a waltz in that shower. I did dance a waltz in that shower.
Have you ever watched a good film and when it comes to the token sex scene the actors wend their way to the bathroom, which gets all steamy. Wet droplets ooze down the glass in a sensual way then the camera pans to more droplets trickling down firm tanned skin, tracing unbelievable curves and muscles. The lovers make all the right moaning and panting noises to convince the audience they should get into a hot shower with their partner. Movie companies should be sued for false advertising. It is all a celluloid hoax. Not cellulite, that’s what most of the rest of us have. Along with rolls and wrinkles and spots and a serious lack of smooth tanned rippling muscles. Oh wait that’s right the other person in the shower with me had the smooth unwrinkled tanned muscular parts. We danced a slow waltz each humming the same tune, harmonising in the bathroom acoustics. He put shampoo in my hair as we danced and he massaged my scalp. I rested my cheek against his shoulder and almost fell asleep standing up. Deep pleasurable sigh! Oh did I mention that tiles and glass can be cold and slippery when wet. The hot water eventually runs out and shampoo stings the eyes and without those fabulous chrome bars on the wall like my gran has, then there is nothing to hang onto to keep safe while attempting gymnastics in the shower. Beside all that I simply wanted to wash off the sweat and smudged makeup after six and a half hours of nightclub dancing.