It’s All a Wash

    I’m just back from a trip to Southern California with my son and his water polo team.  His team plays in several “travel tournaments” each year and it’s always a good time.  Yes, I realize it’s somewhat ridiculous for twelve year olds to travel for sports, their parents plunking down chunks of cash that would otherwise fit quite nicely into a college savings account.  Then again, as a parents of three active kids, my wife and I both enjoy the one on one time with our kids and take turns traveling with them.

For the uninitiated, water polo is much like a swim meet but instead of a flip turn at the end of the pool, one wrestles with an opposing player for 15 to 25 seconds before sprinting back to the opposite end.  There’s a ball, a couple goals and two guys in white who blow whistles and make hand gestures which get any overzealous adults in the stands to moan, whine, hoot and yell.  It’s quite a sight to take in.  Multiple games over the course of a day can be exhausting.  The kids get pretty tired too.

Upon completion of the first day’s action, I was more than a little excited to get checked into our hotel, get a shower and put my feet up.  It was a fairly nice hotel and I was quite taken with the well-appointed bathroom.  There was plenty of space, natural stone, lots of soft towels and, the star of the show, an extra-large shower complete with rain water shower head.  Cool.  Not what we have at home and judging from the circumference of the head, showering would take about ninety seconds.  The rolled up shower mat by the door seemed oddly out of place but I’m no authority on décor, so no matter.

Water pressure is the wind beneath any shower head’s wings.  The pressure here was in the “acceptable” category, several notches down from “majestic”.  Still good enough to hose down both shoulders simultaneously.  The reason behind the roomy shower was quickly evident:  one must step clear of the water to apply soap or it’s washed away on contact.  It took me the first verse of Jim Croce’s “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” to get lathered and back under the torrent.  Shampoo was gone instantly as was any other visible bubble.  Right about the time I dragged Leroy through his “lesson ‘bout a-messin’ with the wife of a jealous man”, a problem occurred to me.  The water came straight down, not out at an angle and I have not one but two underarms.  My feet and other areas we’ll simply characterize as “tough to rinse” would need a going over as well.  I stood briefly stumped as the rain continued to pound my skyward facing epidermis.

The cleaning staff works in strange and mysterious ways.  As my eyes fell to the corner of the room I was struck by a moment of clarity.  My wife doesn’t believe it but I swear another light came on above.  Maybe the bulb had been loose and steam completed the connection.  Doesn’t matter.  The answer was there.  Changing vocal gears to “Slip Slidin’ Away”, I cast wide the shower door and padded slowly but certainly over the marble floor, crossing the stone encased room like an out of tune Paul Simon at a Red Rocks nudist event.  A few short steps and I had my mitts on the combo shower/yoga mat.

The rest of process was silky smooth.

 

 

 

Only problem was I needed a shower afterwards.