I returned from my mom’s house last night with much glory and triumph and such. Trumpets greeted my arrival with their joyous music, masses of people crowded around, waiting to give me their loving embrace, and a heavenly chorus lit up the air. Ok well, that’s not exactly what happened, but as an English major if I’m not allowed a good job I might as well be allowed a little creative license.
At any rate, that is not the point of this post, and I will not address it further (I bet that’s irritating, but I’m sorry, I can’t help it). At this point you may be wondering why I have entitled this entry “The Icy Rain of Death”- fear not, your worries will soon be abated. I awoke this morning, which was odd in and of itself (I’ve been getting up at around 12:30-1:00 pm), to a knock at my door. It was one of my friends telling me that it was 11:00 and if we wanted tickets to the basketball game we had to get them by 12:30. I groaned and managed to pry myself from bed and greet the ever-cold morning-out-of-blankets air. Its frigidity exceeded expectations, but I plowed on. I pulled on some clothes and a jacket for good measure and turned on the shower to let it heat up. I shaved and returned to find that the shower was still not warm.
At first I found the fact that the hot water was out amusing because my neighbor’s shower was being resurfaced and she couldn’t use it, so she was planning on using mine. Add in to this the fact that my roommate also needed to take a shower and we were all in a hurry to get tickets to the basketball game, and the irony was delicious. I quickly realized however, that I must be some sort of sadomasochistic freak to be amused by such a circumstance, and I reported the news to my compatriots with utmost sobriety. My roommate put on a brave face and took a cold shower, which just goes to show that he is probably more man than I am. My friend opted to be dirty, and I decided to go halfway. I would wash my hair in the sink.
As I stuck my head under the faucet I immediately regretted my decision. After a series of complex maneuvers I managed to wet roughly 75% of my head and 50% of my shirt (I didn’t have the forethought to remove it beforehand(Ok, that’s a lie, I was smart enough to take off my shirt, but that’s not as funny(Yes, I realize now you can’t even trust anything I say, I’m sorry for putting you into such a situation(Man, this is a lot of parentheses, I hope I put the right amount of end parentheses.)))). I decided that would have to be good enough and applied shampoo. Rinsing it out proved to be even more challenging than wetting my hair in the first place, but I did eventually get most of it out. I’m not really sure where I was going with this, but I guess the moral of the story is don’t wash your hair in a small sink with a low faucet.
If you don’t know why I entitled this “The Icy Rain of Death,” it was a vague reference to the cold shower that was inspired by recent weather reports of freezing rain. Really, I just thought it sounded all cool and dramatic.