Water Can't Touch My Face
Out of all the laws and norms governing our society, showering technique often goes unpoliced. Some people, for example, might stand on one foot in the shower, like a flamingo. They don't even realize they are wrong, the poor things. Television commercials can be instructive in this regard – lovers too. But I would guess there are still a few happy flamingoes out there.
I myself used to be a happy flamingo. See, I don't like water touching my face, particularly striking my cheeks or dribbling down my chin. It is safe to say that I have not washed my face in about 25 years. Then one day my wife noticed and – WHAM – I got normalized. How could I have known my shower technique was so wrong, so dangerous to our civil society?
The reason I got to be such a deviant, I believe, is Water Babies. My parents, in all good intention, probably took me to a class where babies get their faces wet in the swimming pool. My cerebrum doesn't remember this event, but my cerebellum sure does. Whenever water starts getting close to my face, it yells, "Hey! Get that wet stuff away from my breathing holes!"
But there is another possible explanation. Much as I haven't washed my face in 25 years, I also haven't cried in about that long. Crying, I learned, was bad. It was immature and stupid. It was wimpy and uncool. If you're going to be a crybaby, you might as well put on some turquoise pants, etc.
Indeed, I cauterized my tear ducts long, long ago. And now, whenever I get wetness on my face, it brings back those bad, mad, sad feelings of when I used to be a turquoise-clad crybaby. It is utterly loathsome to me.
So, yet again, not being able to cry has landed me in trouble. First I was accused of being an emotional vegetable. Now my private shower regimen has been made a matter of national security.
When, people, when will I learn to cry?
I myself used to be a happy flamingo. See, I don't like water touching my face, particularly striking my cheeks or dribbling down my chin. It is safe to say that I have not washed my face in about 25 years. Then one day my wife noticed and – WHAM – I got normalized. How could I have known my shower technique was so wrong, so dangerous to our civil society?
The reason I got to be such a deviant, I believe, is Water Babies. My parents, in all good intention, probably took me to a class where babies get their faces wet in the swimming pool. My cerebrum doesn't remember this event, but my cerebellum sure does. Whenever water starts getting close to my face, it yells, "Hey! Get that wet stuff away from my breathing holes!"
But there is another possible explanation. Much as I haven't washed my face in 25 years, I also haven't cried in about that long. Crying, I learned, was bad. It was immature and stupid. It was wimpy and uncool. If you're going to be a crybaby, you might as well put on some turquoise pants, etc.
Indeed, I cauterized my tear ducts long, long ago. And now, whenever I get wetness on my face, it brings back those bad, mad, sad feelings of when I used to be a turquoise-clad crybaby. It is utterly loathsome to me.
So, yet again, not being able to cry has landed me in trouble. First I was accused of being an emotional vegetable. Now my private shower regimen has been made a matter of national security.
When, people, when will I learn to cry?
posted by Porterman at 10:11 AM
2 Comments:
I know this post is old news, but I have to take a moment and respond. It made me laugh because I have the same face-water aversion. If a single drop of water gets on my face while I'm in the shower I have to stop everything and wipe it off with the towel. In a similar reprogramming incident, my girlfriend found out and made corrections. I am now expected to use a fancy face soap/lotion/cleanser in the shower. Whenever I use it, however, I keep my eyes squeezed shut until I can rinse the water off and completely dry my face. This too annoys my girlfriend because it means after I've rinsed my face I grope blindly around for the towel and I keep kocking all her special face cleansers (she has about twenty seven) over. Plus sometimes I accidentally pull the towel into the shower with me and get it soaking wet, after which it is no longer able to serve in a face drying capacity. This means I have to reach out of the shower and get the nearest dry towel hanging on the hook, which is usually her towel. A particularly bad morning can result in three or four sopping wet towels lying on the floor of the shower by the time I am done. But at least my face is clean.
My girlfriend has requested that I ammend my comment to clarify that she does not, in fact, have twenty seven special face cleansers. She says that she only has one and she doesn't want your readers to think she is the type of person to have twenty seven. I got confused because I have zero, and the difference between zero and one or twenty seven is essentially the same.
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