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Danger in the shower. Or: How to get soap in your eyes, draw blood from your foot, and scare the hell out of your cats, all at the same time

In the last couple of years I’ve taken more and more to shaving in the shower. Feels like I get a closer shave, I can keep my razor and shaving cream off the sink for less clutter, blah blah blah. I tend to lather up and then shave before rinsing all the soap off me at once just before I finish the shower, which is likely way TMI but which is important to this prattly tale.

My two cats have demonstrated ever greater fascination with the entire shower experience in the last several months. They quite liked it when I had a bathtub with a shower head and shower curtain; they’re now enthralled by my master bathroom’s shower stall with its sliding-glass doors, the better to whip into frenzy when water drops slide down the doors.

This morning these disparate elements came together in a most unusual way.

So I’m in the shower and the cats are crouched on the bathroom floor watching intently as the water dribbles down the inside of the shower doors. Flex is right by the shower door at the shower-head end of the stall; Annie is a foot or so to Flex’s right, about halfway between the stall and the vanity.

I grab the shaving cream from its spot on the little over-the-shower-pipe organizer thing I use because the shower stall’s walls are conveniently shelf-free, and while there are two little seat-type things about a foot high at either end of the stall, they’re often wet and I don’t like it when the shaving-cream can rusts.

More TMI.

So anyway, I spritz the shaving cream onto my hand and carefully lather up my face using the new fogless mirror I bought at Bed Bath & Beyond a few weeks ago. I had to replace my previous fog-free mirror because it wasn’t fog-free at all and then when I was cleaning the bathroom in April I foolishly wiped over the mirror’s surface with a cleanser-covered sponge, rendering the formerly shiny mirror surface scratchy and dull, so it was even less fog-free than it had been when new.

Anyway again, the shaving lather applied, I grab my trusty bar of Irish Spring and lather up elsewhere, the better to give the shaving cream time to soften my admittedly non-rugged face. (Dumb habits die hard.) Irish Springing completed, I reach for my razor, which hangs from a specially designed hole at the left side of the over-the-shower-pipe organizer thing, which is a silly detail but which figures prominently later in this tale.

So I shave. Carefully but against the grain because I like a very close shave and the only way I can achieve this is by breaking Cardinal Shaving Rules, but it also means I can get away with shaving every other day and MY HATRED FOR SHAVING BURNS WITH THE FIRE OF A THOUSAND SUNS. Anything that means closer and fewer shaves, I’m all for it. I can deal with the occasional skin breakouts and other crap that result.

When I finish shaving I rinse the razor and reach toward the organizer to place the razor back in its little storage device when I experience a freak series of events which occurs in what seems like hours but is really, oh, I’d say no more than 9 or 10 seconds:

  1. Somehow a bit of soap lather from my arm ends up in my left eye at the moment I start putting the razor into its storage spot. In typical fashion, I immediately squint my left eye shut but keep my right eye open because I foolishly believe this will help me see.
  2. In reacting to the soap in the eye, I drop, rather than place, the razor into its storage hole. The razor drops too hard into the rack and the cartridge pops free of the razor handle, which, now too slim to be held by the hole, clatters along with the displaced cartridge to the shower-stall floor.
  3. I reel backward in reaction to the admittedly mild but OUTRAGEOUSLY FUCKING ANNOYING sting of soap in my eye. My intent is to place my face under the shower stream to rinse my left eye; my achieved action is to step backward with my left foot at the moment the razor pieces hit the stall floor.
  4. The razor cartridge skitters across the stall and ends up in the exact location where I place my left foot when I step back in reaction to the soap-in-the-eye bit (see #1 above).
  5. The cats have started reacting to the clattery sounds of the razor parts hitting the stall floor when they react even more violently to the “OW DAMMIT!” and other less-savory shouts I emit in response to the cuts inflicted on the bottom of my left foot by the goddamned razor cartridge which of course was blade-side-up when I stepped on it.
  6. At this moment I am standing with my face half in the shower stream but my right eye open and left eye scrunched close against the soap sting, so I see both cats go into Full Freak Alert Mode!!! and they try to bolt from the bathroom.
  7. Apparently my cats can’t tell the difference between empty air and the mostly closed bathroom door, for they both run head-first into the door at Feline Evasive-Maneuvers Speed, which I’m sure is roughly 230mph. The sounds of their skulls hitting the hollow bathroom door reverberate through the bathroom in time to my continued cursings over the soap sting in my left eye and the razor-inflicted cuts on my left foot.
  8. The cats gather what little wit they have and manage to scramble around the door and out of the bathroom at the same moment I lift my foot off the cartridge, finally manage to rinse the soap out of my eyes, and look down at the stall floor in time to see the trickles of blood in the water draining away from my foot.
  9. And I’m still muttering curses.

I stand there for perhaps a full minute with shaving-cream remnants and soap bubbles and blood dripping off various parts of me, and I end up laughing weakly for another couple of minutes beyond that while I try to stanch the blood from my foot and then pick up the pieces of the razor and put everything right.

The cats won’t enter the bathroom for the remainder of the morning.