This is going to be an ode to my new joy, the tale of discovery of the latest, very bestest way to unwind from those rough days, and even rougher weeks. And I have been having those days and weeks. It’s long, it’s drawn out, and I can’t find my way in to bed before one in the morning, and yet, I’m still getting up before seven. I should say, I’m supposed to get up before seven. It’s not really working that way. So, I stumble out of bed at just too late to catch a shower. And so, I’ve become the shower in the evening girl, or the shower at one in the morning girl. (There’s this whole side issue about that, about the frizzy, freaky hair, which we won’t go into, because it’s much to rant, and this is meant to be a rave.) So, point being, I can reconcile going in to work without taking a shower, but I can’t go a whole day without one.
So, Michelle took pity on me this evening when my original plan had fallen apart. I didn’t want to go to San Jose to see The Mits without a co-pilot, and well, the wing woman and her steward were grounded. I whimpered to Michelle, and got invited to the movies with her and her husband. (Why do I have so few single friends?) They are, of course, normal, and were ready to call it an evening at midnight on a Friday when they had gotten up early and worked all day. I on the other day am far more masochistic, but not that creative. The best I could come up with after I left them was to stop by the grocery store and pick up a six pack.
I got home, cracked a Red Stripe, fired up the laptop, hit play on the Sex and the City DVD, and sat down to do some blogging. I don’t know if I was more inspired by the show or by the beer. That is when I remembered the morning, the falling out of bed, and in to the first pair of pants I laid my hands on in the fluid motion that led me out the door and in to work. I realized that I need to take at least one shower between episodes of sleep, or risk becoming an unwashed, hippy chick, walking San Francisco stereotype.
Now, I’m not claiming to be some kind of innovator. It’s been done before, and will inevitably continue to be done, especially by myself. I don’t know how the idea came to me, but I’m glad it did. As I hopped up, snatched my towel, and headed to it, without much thought, I stumbled upon a most wonderful thing.
A scooped up my towel and Red Stripe, and skipped to the loo.
I must sing its praises. It is exquisite. It is simplicity. It is perfection. It is Beer in the Shower.
The only question is, what will I do once I get back into a more reasonable pattern of showering before I go to work?