Guerillas in the Mist

I've been letting off some steam.

Literally.

After more than 2 years of having gym membership I have finally figured out where 1) the sauna and steam room are, and 2) how to use them.

I'm not slow.

Truth be told, I was unable to use the gym for a good 18 months after my surgical mishap, and for the same reason I was stiff and sore after attempting a full day's work. So I decided to soldier on, and enlist the aid of the kids' boot camp to entertain my offspring while I stretch out and sweat.

I deposited my daughter with the personal trainer, parked my son in his wheelchair (his current form of transportation) and took myself off to the ladies' change room.

Finding a locker that actually locked was my first challenge, followed by trying to make the swap from warm comfy clothes to my swimwear of choice (a tankini, as the 'wet room' is unisex and we don't wanna scare anyone now do we) in the world's smallest cubicles. Seriously, would it kill 'em to remove one loo and make the others a little roomier?!

Deal done, I ventured into the steam room and pushed the button; "I can cope with 20 minutes" I tell myself and stepped inside.

Sliding onto the white tiles (again, literally) I wait for the onslaught of hot damp air, which when it kicks in, is every bit as hot and damp as promised. Within minutes I can't make out my own feet, and am finding it a little hard to breathe. But I'm loving it.

Seconds after that I have the distinctly unpleasant sensation of something dripping on my head.  I realise that the condensation on the ceiling is to blame and quietly freak out at the thought of what else may have accumulated up there before gravity brings it back to land...on me. I pop my little towel on my head to prevent any further absorption of god knows what, which also makes it hotter on top. All the better to detox with, no?

In the midst of all this perspiring and pondering I hear the sound of male voices. Can't see where they're coming from but I am hoping that they opt for the sauna instead. Even my modest tankini isn't modest enough, and despite the fact that I still can't see beyond my face in this mist I am not keen to share my space. No one looks their best in the steam room. I am now grateful that even the LEDs can't shed any light on the subject.

Another 10 minutes of this and I am desperate to a) breathe, b) see, and c) drink water that hasn't vaporised in the heat. So I carefully make my way to the door, stealthily slipping and sliding like a madwoman while blindly groping for the exit (again I'm thankful those guys wisely went with Door #2 or who knows what else I may have grasped in my haste to escape).

Outside, after a few delicious deep breaths of cool air, I make my next questionable decision, to try the Monsoon Shower: 10 powerful jets spraying water so cold it'd make an Eskimo think twice. I do my own personal version of the 'Hokey Pokey', and put my left hand in, pull my left hand out, with everything shaking all about. It's not until the spray slows to a trickle I am physically able to take the temperature. Then accidentally touch the button that starts the show all over again.

Belatedly I scan the room for security cameras, in case footage of my foolishness appears on someone's YouTube channel.

Relieved there will be no recordings I make my waterlogged way back to the Women's Room where I towel off best I can and put my street clothes back on. I make quick use of the complimentary hairdryers to blow my 'fro back into some semblance of sense (humidity and my hair do not play nicely together) and check I am not looking as frazzled as I feel before I go get the kids. Here I realise I am wearing but one earring. Must have come off when I removed my towelling head gear.  Am I talented, or what.

After a 45 minute workout my children are appropriately excited and exhausted and allow me to come home to the comfort of the couch and computer and a cuppa tea.

And quietly contemplate a better plan of attack for the next time I decide to let off steam.

Jx

©2012

Pray, May I get some Privacy in the Privy?

Never, since I had children, have I been allowed to go to the bathroom in peace.

Not once, I tell you.

My Beloved, on the other hand, (along with the husbands of every other woman I know when the subject has come up in conversation) can do his ablutions in absolute privacy.

The man can even wallow in the bathtub reading a book for up to an hour undisturbed.

But, as soon as I even think about taking a shower or answering the call of Nature, the natural reaction of my children is to desperately need me for something that cannot possibly wait just a few minutes more.

Due to a design flaw (just one of the many) in our supposed award-winning-architect designed (read: male, in every sense of the word) house, if the doors to the Master bedroom and the family laundry are open simultaneously, the neighbours get a direct view into our room…and whatever’s going on in there at the time.

Worst time is first thing in the morning, when the kids duly deposit their dirty washing then just have to come into my room whilst I’m having a rinse. Yes, all too often I’ve been caught with a real ‘roo-in-the-headlights look as too late I realize my error in strutting out of the shower sans towel.

The same architect also thought it a good idea to install the type of window in the ensuite that if opened to let the steam out or fresh air in, enables the next door neighbours- and those next door to them- a clear view through too. I’m positive it’s not quite what the muppets meant when they sang about how you get to meet the people in your street, on those children’s TV shows. (Just quietly, I've never lived in the kind of neighbourhood where you meet the kind of people they do on a daily basis!)

Nonetheless, I am sure that the entire neighbourhood knows it whenever I’m ‘visiting the ladies’- if not for the aforementioned ludicrous layout, but by the accompanying “I am in the bathroom, please leave me be!” from me.

I actually started composing this blog in my head whilst parked upon the porcelain- to the strains of “Mu-um, he called me dumbhead!” and “Mu-um, can you fill up my water bottle?” and this particular chorus also included my Beloved at the door: “Are you in there? You’re wanted on the ‘phone.”

For goodness sake, let me pee in peace please!

But no, a quiet time on the pot is not my lot in life. Nor can I ever seek solitude in the shower. As for tranquility in the tub- forget about it.

So, again I pose the question: does a mother ever get some privacy in the privy?

Unfortunately every mum I’ve asked has the same answer, and it is not the same one to: Does a bear poop in the woods?!

Jx
©2009