Get the Fuck Out of My Shower

I am a shower tyrant. I always have been. Much to my family’s dismay, I don’t want anyone with, near, or even in the vicinity of me when I’m showering.

I trace this back to my childhood. When I was in preschool, I would shower with my older sister. She would help me shampoo my hair and make sure I was cleaning all my parts. But she stood in front of the shower nozzle the entire time and would only periodically lean from side to side to give me some of the spray. So most of the time, I was cold and yearning for an uninterrupted flow of warm water. Even at that tender young age, I remember thinking, “Fuck this shit. I want my own damn shower.”

Ever since then, I’ve always prized my solo shower. It’s my special time to think and relax and wash away the prior day. It is my ME time.

My husband is not so thrilled with my shower stance, and it’s been a difficult rule to enforce. I guess this is my fault, really. Early in our fornicating years, I may have indulged him with a little sexy time in the shower. But eventually that got old, and I reclaimed the stall as my own. (My god, that’s as bad as a blow job bait-and-bail, isn’t it?) For many years, I repeatedly rebuffed my husband’s requests for a shared shower. “I’m trying to get clean! I don’t need your goo on me!”

He then suggested we try showering together for intimacy, not sex. Every once in a while, I’d give in, but we quickly discovered we have different preferences for water temperature. He likes just it barely warm whereas I prefer water so hot it practically melts off your face. “Just get out,” I insisted during one such lukewarm shower-for-two. There could be no temperature compromise.

Once I had kids, however, a solo shower became an entirely different challenge. Even finding the time to hose off was difficult, let alone time to relax. I’d squeeze it in during naptime or wake up at ungodly hours to ensure uninterrupted relaxation and cleansing.

I explained my dilemma to a friend, and she replied, “Why don’t you just let your daughter play outside the stall?” I eyed her doubtfully. She assured me it was possible and suggested I bring a few toys for my daughter while I showered in peace.

I was right to be skeptical—it wasn’t that easy. And it certainly wasn’t peaceful. My child quickly bored of her own playthings and would search the room for other “toys.” She would make telescopes out of tampons (clean ones), create maxi pad (again, clean ones) art on the wall, and wreak havoc in my bathroom. I tried to distract her by drawing pictures on the fogged-up stall door so I could shower mostly uninterrupted. That seemed to work for a while. It wasn’t total relaxation, but it would have to do.

Then one day during shower time, she pointed to my stomach and said, “Baby.”

I patted my fleshy pooch and looked down. Great. Now my kid is insulting my baby weight too?! I thought that was just my mother me. “No, sweetie, there’s no baby in here.”

She pointed more dramatically and raised her voice, “BABY!”

“No. There is NO baby in here. Mommy’s tummy is just really big, all right?!”

“NO,” she hollered and then crawled over to touch the shower door. “BABY!”

My daughter didn’t think I was pregnant. She just wanted me to draw a baby on the shower door. *facepalm*

After that incident, my solo shower time became about more than just attaining Zen. It was also about preserving my dignity. I made sure to get up early enough to shower without an audience or self-inflicted insult. Some days I would just skip it altogether. (Cleanliness is overrated, right?)

I managed a few years of interruption-free showers and was just getting my shower mojo back when my preschooler son ruined the whole thing. It started off innocent enough. He’d barge in during shower time and make some observations.

“Mommy, how come you don’t have hairy boobies like Daddy?”

“Mommy, why is your tummy so mushy?”

“Mommy, how come you don’t have hair on your ‘gina anymore? You had some yesterday.”

After that last one, I asked my son to please get the fuck out give me privacy in the bathroom. To respect the closed door. To leave me the fuck alone. That worked for a while, but the temptation was just too great, I suppose, because he came in to ask me how many friends he could invite to his birthday party … which was three months away. I sighed and answered his question as I dried off with a towel.

He examined my stomach through the shower stall and “helpfully” suggested, “You know, Mommy, you should really try Celtrixa. You could see dramatic results in two weeks.”

“Uhhh, what now?” I stammered.

“You know, those stretch marks on your stomach? You’ve got a lot of them, but Celtrixa reduces stretch marks by seventy-five percent. And it works on new and old stretch marks.”

What. The. Fuck.

“You know, just because the television tells you something, that doesn’t always mean it’s true. Can you please leave while I finish in here?”

“Uhhh, Mommy. Celtrixa has clinically-proven results. And you can see dramatic results within two weeks. Two weeks!” He was very excited for me.

“Okay then. Thanks for the information. It’s time to leave the bathroom. Please get out. NOW.”

“Okay. But, Mommy, you should really consider Celtrixa.”

After that final blow, I took more drastic measures to ensure my privacy. If my kid could recite commercials and clinical results, he could read and follow some explicit rules. I hung a sign outside my bathroom door:

“Unless someone is bleeding or the house is on fire,
DO NOT come in here when the door is closed.
Any violation will result in an automatic $20 fine.”

That did the trick, and I got my shower back from my children. Now if I could only keep my husband out. I think I’m gonna have to destroy his ATM card.

The original version of this essay was published in I Still Just Want to Pee Alone.

Photo Credits: bowie15 / 123RF Stock Photo