The water beats down around me. It washes away sweat, sweat that is beginning to dry and would leave a fossil-trail of salt if it weren’t for the outpouring of hot water around me. I’m still sweating. I feel my face red and hot and looking like a heart attack. I need to shave. I’m going to wear a skirt today. The hair on my legs will not do. I lather up the left leg. I shave off the little weeds that poke up from under my skin. I lather up the right leg. I begin the trawling of my razor up my calf. I’m halfway through the right leg when there is a little tapping on the thick plastic door that separates me from the rest of the gym.
“Hello?!” I peak out the inch or so I have cracked open the shower door.
A lady in a gym uniform calmly and with authority informs me that the fire alarm has gone off. “You have to get out now.”
“You’re kidding, right?.”
The smile she gives me tells me that she is not kidding and that she is sorry she has caught me so ill-prepared.
“Would you like a bathrobe?”
Duh. Of course.
“That would be great. Thanks!”
As I wrap my hair in my towel, turban style and slip into the terry cloth robe provided by the uniformed gym lady, I hear the very same uniformed gym lady informing some other hapless showerer that their daily hygienic routine must come to an abrupt halt. My fellow showerer* does not take it with the same pleasant grace with which I greeted the news. I hear a woman’s voice raised in consternation. I don’t make out the exact words, but surmise that the uniformed gym lady has just been told to fuck off.
So burn in hell if you want.
I have time to slip my feet into my sandals, which I’ve uncharacteristically left out of my locked locker and neatly tucked under the changing bench. Head in towel, body in dressing gown, feet in sandals, I shuffle through the mysterious tunnel which I never knew until this moment existed and is the path to save oneself from burning alive.
Out on the street the sun is shining.
Thank god it’s warm.
The pavement is littered with other homegym-less types. 2 or 3 others dressed like me. A number of sweaty men and women standing idly in track shorts, trainers. Across the road on the other pavement I see a couple – a trainer and a whatever you call a person who receives personal training – carrying on with their personal training session. One of those two was clever enough to have brought the dumbbells out with them.
I haven’t anticipated my current state of self-consciousness. Whilst robing up I didn’t think anything about stepping out in the wardrobe dictated by the current circumstance. Just minutes ago my attitude was a shrug of the shoulders. Now, in the glare of the sun, I feel like a joke of a sun myself. All eyes on me, the centre of this little solar system of outcast athletes. I don’t know where to look. I look up. I look down at my toes. I realise how incongruous my sandals look with the white terry cloth robe.
These shoes don’t match.
Despite my relative discomfort, I see the humour in my present situation. I don’t have any super duper important meetings first thing this morning, so a wrinkle in my routine won’t put my nose out of joint. It’s like a scene in a movie.
* As in had been showering at the same time as me; NOT as in had been showering with me
Let’s get one thing straight: the purchase of the latex gloves was not inspired by anything pervy, but was, rather, motivated by squeamishness.
I believe in accountability: one must be aware of and accept responsibility for one’s actions.
Having embarked on the course of dog ownership, I have had to reconcile myself to the impending responsibility of scooping up dog shit. It was the idea of this task alone that almost broke the dog brokering deal.
I consider myself unsual in that my fondness for dogs and cats is split in equal measure. I could have easily pushed for feline companionship. Cats have something in their favour: they shit in a box. Cat-shit scooping can be done in anonymity. And with a little shovel.
Plus, remember that time when Shelly’s dog ate a plastic bag and Shelly had to pull the non-digested bag out of her dog’s ass when it partly emerged non-digested. Disgusting.
Or I could have made a case for the status quo: an animal free (shit scooping free) environment.
But, I participated in the negotiation and agreed to a deal with its drawbacks. I will have to pick up shit. In public. In a an uncomfortably ‘hands-on’ manner.
Having made the deal, my mind harkened back to a time when I lived in a building where the building society was chaired by a couple of dog owners. During one of our semi-annual building meetings at the building-society-managers-dog-owners’ flat , I noted a box of surgical gloves next to the door with the dog lead. One of the building-society-managers-dog-owners caught my glance and explained, “Those are so that we can pick up after Lance (the society-managers-dog-owners’ dog). Put on a glove, pick up the dirt and peel the glove off inside out. It works like a charm.”
I hadn’t consciously filed that nugget of advice away for future reference, but when the prospect of picking up literal shit from London’s parks and pavements became more likely, my mind worked its magic and recalled an alternative use for latex gloves.
This should be worth it:
Then, as now*, we received scads** of advice.
Firstly, we were warned, “If you’ve seen 1 mouse, you have more than 1 mouse. Where there’s one, there’s more.”
We didn’t like those politic words.
Do-gooders suggested various means by which to apprehend our uninvited guest.
Traps. Peanut butter. Chocolate.
A Norwegian who had lived in a mice-infested flat on Bakerloo had a tried-and-true-and-entertaining method of entrapment, which entailed a shoe box and a rolled up newspaper and a quick flick of the wrist. If done correctly, a temporarily stunned mouse would receive a death-inducing wallop with The Times. The Mista and I had already laid down the standard spring-mounted trap, but rushed home eagerly with a fresh newspaper in the hopes of some carnival style fun.
The little critter, however, was a clever little thing. A big brain in that tiny, hardly mammalian head.
Maybe he was tipped off. Or maybe, just maybe, we (The Mista) had unwittingly outwitted our visitor.
The first and best defense, as implemented flawlessly by the Mista, is cleanliness.
Initially attracted by the warm, convivial atmosphere of our reception***, the mouse shortly learned that if he didn’t want to starve to death he’d have to search for nourishment and a meaningful existence in someone else’s house.
He left of his own accord. Without even saying good-bye.
*In the comments box of my recent posts.
**Scads is a word that I don’t think I’ve ever used. It popped up at www.thesaurus.com, and I thought, ‘Hmmm. ‘Scads!’ That’s a word to use! But, the more I think of it, the more I wonder if I’d ‘get it’ if it were used in conversation. I will now begin using scads not just in my blog but in real life conversation too. I’ll probably lose friends – cyber and flesh-and-blood alike.
***Living room.
Speaking of bad water, it’s quite amazing that I still have a seemingly healthy, full head of hair.
Each morning upon raking my mop, a goodly portion of follicles are deprived of their lovely goldenbrown strands. Sad sacs.
Then, in the shower, more strands meet their demise as I lather up with shampoo.
The coup de grace of hair loss happens during the conditioning process. As I work my fingers through the untangling tangles, great clumps are released. It’s quite disgusting, really.
Having no sisters, I never learned the feminine art of beauty regimen conversation. I’ve lived a solitary existence when it comes to the troubles with fingernail painting (where it really is necessary to stay within the lines!) and ingrown hairs (loofa-ing doesn’t always do the trick!) and maintaining a spotless, yet youthful, glow on this mug of mine. Such was my lot with my hair loss* dilemma as well.
I mutely scooped out worryingly liberal clumps of hair from the shower floor.
Until one day, the daughter of a Malaysian general living in Mayfair inadvertently let me in on a little secret:
Not only does London water taste bad, but it’s responsible for the unnatural separation of so many hairs from my head!
Who would have thought it?
The general’s daughter consorts with types** who stoop to washing their hair with bottled water.
How much Evian does it take to wash a normal head of hair?
London water sucks, but washing with Evian (or even Volvic) is a bit over the top, don’t you think?
*Before anyone gets the wrong idea: I am NOT balding. I am shedding. There is a BIG difference.
**The Posh Spice sort, I imagine.
P commented on my first post.
P isn’t P’s real name, but you probably surmised that, being the astute readership that you must be. P’s real name is Petunia, which she hates, understandably. Her parents, a couple of hippies living under the communist regime in Prague, owned an English botanical dictionary. P is for Petunia.
I’m off track. Sorry about that.
P asked if there wasn’t something more I wanted to share with you lot — about my personal hygiene regimen.
And, yes, there is.
At first I thought it would be too intimate to talk about Intimo*. A lady doesn’t reveal her secrets. Petunia reminded me of the fact that I don’t often ever pride myself on my ladylike qualities. For example, I curse. I don’t paint my fingernails. Sometimes I will paint my toenails. I drink pints. I definitely burp. Sometimes … on rare occasion … I … fart.
There, I’ve mentioned the unmentionable; now sharing Intimo doesn’t seem so foreboding.
I suspect there were ulterior motives behind Petunia’s question.
P and I have harboured great ambitions: we have often talked about becoming Intimo moguls. You see, Intimo is not readily available in The Smoke**, and we think we’ve found our opportunity. London’s is a market ripe for products catering to personal cleanliness. If there is any doubt, take a nice whiff the next time you are in The Tube. Then you’ll know I’m right.
Regarding Petunia’s ulterior motives, I suspect that she saw this blog as a vehicle through which we could achieve our dream. She might be on to something.
So I will begin taking orders now. Feel free to email me with your requests, and I’ll get busy setting up my Intimo PayPal account.
*For those too-astute-for-your-own-good types who happen to mention that Intimo is not Intimo but really Infasil, fuck off. It’s fun to say Intimo. In Tea Mo! In Tea Mo! In Tea Mo!
**It’s an Italian product.
Filed under: hygiene
I’m clean. Squeaky.
Hair washed (and conditioned).
Teeth flossed, brushed, and Listerined.
Skin soaped up and loofa’d and scrubbed pink.
Nails trimmed and cuticles pushed back, on all ten fingers and all ten toes.
That dry, hard skin on the heel of my feet: gone. Pumiced into oblivion.
A sudsy wash cloth taken to the back of my neck, to the back of my ears. Against the advice of every older person to every younger person learning about self-maintenance, I’ve barrelled a Cotton Bud (Q-tip) down into my ear canal.
Other areas – too private to mention – have also received hygienic attention.
Every inch of me has been sanatised. I’ve been cleaned up and am ready to go.
Funny, with all the fuss, I’ll just come back smelling of smoke.
