It’s the only bathroom in your house with a shower
and
You do it exactly one month before your large out-of-state wedding.
Our front bathroom no longer exists. In its place are a few beams, a view of the roof above them and the earth below. Among other things this means that John and I are now sharing one bathroom with its quaint little 1929-built cast iron bathtub. John’s first strategy to avoid the bathtub was to be out of town for the entire renovation. When that failed he planned to limit his baths to once a week. Luckily, that one failed too.
On Saturday morning I heard the water running and some splashing and a few loud thumps, so I gingerly tiptoed down the hall and peeked into the bathroom. John sat there, his knees crumpled up to his chest, wedged into the little tub, with a grimace on his face.
He said he felt like a cowboy in an old Western sitting in a metal tub, being forced to bathe by the womenfolk.
“Is there anything I can get you?” I offered.
“Ma’am, water is for horses. What I need is whisky!”
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