My Showerhead Is Trying to Kill Me

There is something wrong with my shower.

Each morning as I drag my body to the bathroom to wash off the previous day’s grunge, I remember, oh yes, now I might die because my showerhead refuses to act like a normal showerhead. But I’m too lazy/apathetic to do anything about it, so I climb into the tub without a second thought.

That is until I turn the thing on, and immediately realize that the pressure of the water spurting out is enough to likely tear off my areolas and cause thousands of splintering fractures upon my already scarred and dimpled body.

My showerhead is trying to kill me.

It doesn’t matter the force at which I turn on the water. It could be a light drizzle trickling out of the faucet, but as soon as I pull the lever to activate the showerhead, it becomes a force to be reckoned with.

The trickle transforms into a torrent of tiny scalding drills, their only mission to penetrate through my pathetic humanoid casing.

My husband will hear a yelp while he is drinking his coffee and yell, “You okay in there, Hun?” but, of course, I can’t answer truthfully because he doesn’t seem to have this issue; he never complains of a murderous shower head.

So instead, I mutter, “uh-huh,” and continue on with the chore of cleaning my body. For the next ten minutes, I’ll be in a constant state of fiddling with the taps. This is my vain attempt to finally, after months of struggle, discover the correct pressure at which I can enjoy my morning rinse.

Do I ever achieve such glory?

Well, considering I’m forced to write an entire story about this daily injustice, I’m sure you can surmise that the answer is a resounding NO.

My son, Lars, doesn’t use the same shower that the rest of the family uses (the death shower). Perhaps he too has been afflicted with the same indignities as I have. Lars uses the shower in the basement. I would follow suit, but seemingly, when this place was constructed, it was set up for exactly his body type. A thirteen-year-old boy with very little body fat.

The space is minuscule.

When first moving into the house, we were painting upstairs and had to use the basement bathroom for a time. Poor Jamie had to practically contort himself into a crabwalk simply to apply shampoo. The water pressure was next to nothing, and there was a strange fish-shaped exfoliator left in the tub by the previous owners, which seemed to be adding to the weird vibe of the place.

To be honest, the fish exfoliator is perched at the top of the shower to this day. I should toss it, but at this point, I’m sort of scared to move it from its sacred resting place.

It turned out that no one had ever used this shower after it had been installed (which makes me question the fish exfoliator even more now), and the builders had not caulked in the bathtub’s drain. The lack of sealant allowed water to seep under the floorboards. Our spare bedroom next to the bathroom was completely flooded after a few days of the family showering in this tub.

My handyman hubs fixed the issue, but I’m still not a fan of the basement bathroom amenities, what with the bad memories of the flood and that creepy fish exfoliator. I’m also not a fan of the upstairs shower that wants to kill me.

So, what I’m really trying to say is, I haven’t showered in like five days.

This, in an attempt to avoid all of the awful showers at my house. But as the saying goes, “You should be happy to have a shower. So go shower, you stink.”

That’s not really a saying. But it probably should be.

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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.

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