The Super Soaper
Confession: I never use a washcloth when I shower. Or a loofah, a pouf, a sponge, a piece of steel wool, a cooperative hedgehog or whatever else someone might use as a mechanism to enhance their cleanliness.
To me, this is not weird. I guess it's the way I grew up, because I never remember using a washcloth except in the bathtub as a kid, although my mom uses them so who knows? Anyway. I've had this conversation with a few people in my lifetime, and it always seems like people think it's odd. I literally own two washcloths and they're, like, twelve years old.
Anyway, when I soap myself up - using only my hands, obviously - there is very little lather, maybe just a couple of random bubbles here and there. I'm saying this because it's an important detail in the story I'm about to tell you.
Bright and early yesterday morning when my eyes popped open, I realized my husband (Curtis) wasn't in the bed beside me. Then I heard the shower running in the bathroom. I thought about waiting until he was done to go in and pee, but I mean, we've been together for almost nineteen years so I figured it didn't much matter. And besides, I was about to piss myself.
I went in and sat down on the toilet in the steam-filled room. Seeing as I'd just woken up (and was, you know, on the toilet), I wasn't exactly in conversation mode, so I did my business without saying a word. But as I sat there, I couldn't help but listen to the sounds coming from the shower. And I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at what I heard: a rhythmic, squishy sound, one that I don't make when I shower.
Call me pervy, but I suspected my husband was, eh ... really enjoying that shower. You picking up what I'm laying down? Good. The sound continued, and I could tell by the way it ever-so-slightly changed - more bubbly somehow - that the volume of lather had increased due to all that enthusiastic skwap-skwapping. I debated. Should I quietly slip out and pretend I hadn't even been there? Should I yank open the shower curtain and point and laugh? Should I make like the spontaneous chick I was when we were dating and slip in there with him for some good clean fun? Decisions, decisions.
Finally I tiptoed over to the shower. "Need some help in there?" I said coyly, easing the curtain open to reveal Curtis energetically stroking his ...
... armpit? Oh.
Skwap-skwap-skwap. "Geez, you startled me," he gasped, lowering his arm, copious amount of lather running down his side. Looking like he had one of those foam machines in there.
"SERIOUSLY, WHO SOAPS THAT VIGOROUSLY?" I said. For crying out loud.
So here's my question: am I in some sort of weird, lather-less minority? Is it strange that my soaping isn't zealous enough to create, like, foam?
This is important research, people. Inquiring minds need to know.