I enjoy taking a shower first thing in the morning, it wakes me up. I don`t believe I have ever met a man who prefers taking a bath, unless there is someone ready to share the tub and frolic in the bubbles.  Showers need to be taken in spaces larger than a 3`X3` square, especially if the area is contained by fiberglass panels that squeeze the space even tighter.  Also, a man standing 6`-2” and weighing 190 pounds give or take, should not shower in a stall 2` wide by 5` long with rounded borders.  I`m in Portugal. Portuguese men by nature are small in stature. The bathing area that I am encumbered with works fine for smallish people but creates a real hazard for someone my size.  

 

As you might picture, my shower accommodations are less than adequate for me.  Every day I leave the bathroom alive, a sense of relief and accomplishment is felt.  The narrow ceramic tub with shortish length and curved edges with a slight pitch to the drain scares the `shit` out of me.  Each time I enter the tub, I am holding on for dear life.  Shower water for this tub is held in check by a shower curtain and three tiled walls.  The base of the tub itself lies slightly above the bathroom floor presenting problems entering and exiting.  There are also two towel racks inside the bathing area fastened to the tiled walls about shoulder height.  Luckily, I haven`t had the need to test the secureness of these two racks but that`s one of the things I`m afraid of.  So, take a shower with me and experience my conundrum.

 

The shower curtain is pulled shut with my towel hanging on the far end away from the shower nozzle.  I test the water for temp as water too hot or too cold might prove disastrous and cause me to flinch wildly like a fish out of water.  Head trauma, blood, death and days without being found with water running could result.  Might I get ahead of myself, sorry.  I push the shower curtain off to my right, toward the nozzle, and as I lightly take hold of the towel rack in front of me against the facing wall with my left hand, I gradually lift my left leg over the edge of the tub and place my foot gingerly on the bathtub`s floor.  Once feeling stable, I begin to place my weight on that foot and gradually lift my right leg over the tub`s edge and begin leaning in to bring my entire body frame into the showering area.  The back of the tub is slightly slanted, and the floor has a pitch running left-to-right for drainage.  Although the time it takes to accomplish these movements is under a minute, my mind envisions a full-length motion picture of disaster and paramedics.  As I am completing these movements, I have never taken my hands off the towel rack although I am placing very little pressure on this questionable hanging device.  It has a slight downward pitch of its own and my trust in its secureness is suspect.

 

So far so good?  I am now able to free my grip from the towel rack and begin the process of bathing.  Not simple.  The tub is quite narrow with rounded edges, any movement other than stationary could prove fatal, literally.  I don`t dare lift my feet and wash the bottoms with soap, so I bend over and try and wedge the soap as best as possible between my toes and around the edges of my feet.  Have I mentioned my vertigo? Being bent over isn`t the safest position.  No pun intended.

 

I like to shave in the shower.  This takes place once I have washed my hair.  I keep the suds going and use them to lather up my face.  I am blinded in this process.  And yes, my vertigo forces me to grab the base of the tub like a monkey holding on for life swinging through branches: toes gripping the floor with curled apprehension.   With eyes closed, an unwelcomed dizziness, toes clenched and leaning slightly I proceed to shave.  Can`t be overly quick as I nick rather easily, and razor cuts seem to trickle blood long after they should.  This process being successful, knock-on wood, I begin my exit.  However, the adventure is far from over.  I`m still in a precarious position. 

 

The tub floor is slightly raised above the bathroom floor.  I am stepping down with a raised leg over the tubs edge forcing weight on my back foot that is pressed against a curved, soapy ceramic floor.  Once again, my towel racks act as stabilizing bars and I gently and slowly deliver my naked body to a level and stable surface.  I think of two characters throughout this ordeal, Norton from the `Honeymooners` and Kramer from `Seinfeld`.  I can`t help but picture a flailing bundle of flesh and bones tumbling uncontrollably to a state of unconsciousness or worse all in the name of cleanliness.  What a sight it would be.  

 

I stumble through The Door of Terror.

Curved and narrow floors he clenched
With curled toes soapy and spent
Each move navigated carefully
In hopes of showering successfully.

 

A day doesn`t pass him by
Of thinking what might he cry
As next of kin find the horror
Behind the dangerous door of terror.