What Doesn't Kill You? Doesn't Kill You.

Warning: This post contains slight carnage. And nudity. Sort of.

I love my apartment, but the bathroom? Is storage deficient. I know I’m mildy spoiled because my previous apartments all had linen closets in the bathrooms, so I never realized the utter chafe-i-ness of not having a bathroom closet where your things could hang out and be easily accessed RIGHT IN the place where they would be utilized.

Fortunately, we live in a world where these sort of imaginary problems (oh, no place for your towels how TRAGIC) have been considered and solved in a highly decorative fashion. I bought a shelf that lived in the corner of the tub/shower combo. Some sort of brushed nickel deal, with baskets for things like bubble bath and shampoos and whatnot. Handy. Decorative. Awesome.

Until the day it tried to kill me. Which I am TOTALLY sharing with you as a public service announcement. Because you need to be aware that there are MANY things in your bathroom that are plotting against you when you’re at your most relaxed and vulnerable. (I’m here for you, y’all.)

So I’m doing a workout program that is super hard and also makes me sweat like a farm animal (yes, I know, science people: animals don’t sweat. Focus on the right part of the story) and after completing one such workout my first thought was: Look at me! I’M SO HEALTHY YAY!

And my second thought was: I would face down a legion of flesh eating zombies while armed with only a toothbrush for a glass of wine right now.

Alas, I did not have any wine. But I did have Diet Coke. So I poured some Diet Coke into a wine glass because I’m FANCY like that, and thought: Now for a bath. Because bubble bath and delicious beverage in fancy stemware equals a win, people. Especially after a righteous workout.

So. Wine glass of Coke. Bubble bath. Me. Life, I thought, it does not suck. The bubbles were fragrant. The water was hot and steamy. The Diet Coke was refreshing. Aaaaaaaaaah, I thought.

That was pretty much when I heard the weird noise. I set the wine glass down on the edge of the tub and sat up to investigate. What was that? It was … grindey. And ominous. I listened. I didn’t hear it again. I began to relax back when there it was again. Grinding.

“What the –“ was as far as I got, stated to the cat who was staring at me from the other room, when the shelf’s suspension rod decided to slide across the ceiling, bringing it crashing down onto my head.

For a moment, all was noise and confusion and OUCH and splashiness as everything that had been ON the shelf now found itself bobbing or sinking into the bubbly bath wather.

“Owwwww,” I thought, followed by “No big. I’ll just stand up and OH HELL WINE GLASS.”

Because had my wine glass been broken by the falling and now being supported primarily by my noggin shelf? Oh yes it had.

And where was the majority of the glass? IN THE TUB.

And could I SEE the glass? NOT THROUGH THE BUBBLES.

The shelf, having failed in its efforts to brain me, seemed to chortle malevolently. I said, with the shelf still leaning heavily against my head, “I need to think.”

Crisis Assessment:

1. There is a shelf on my head. Is my head bleeding? No. Okay, that’s good.
2. There are many bottles and containers in the tub.
3. I am naked in the tub. Also, my leg is bleeding. Situation. Can’t tell how bad.
4. I don’t dare to move because there are chunks of glass in here.
5. When I find a way to get out of this predicament? THIS SHELF IS GOING INTO THE DUMPSTER.
6. This is NOT how I want to get famous, as some sort of “1,000 Ways to Die” sketch!

Obviously, I survived. Because I’m a SURVIVOR Y’all. Well, that and I thought: What if I drain the tub? I think I can reach the lever without risking any tendons or arteries and it was true – I could.

Drained tub. Sat and pitched out anything that had been ON the shelf so it would be on the floor and out of the way. Then carefully, and with minimal moving, picked out the crazy jagged oh my god if I had stepped on that I’d be screwed chunks of glass out of the tub. THEN I checked the bathmat for glass because saving myself from the concept of horrible in-tub carnage would have been pointless if I had promptly then stepped on a chunk o’glass -- like running away from the serial killer in the woods and taking refuge in a deserted basement, there are things smart girls just shouldn’t do.

Anyway. No stiches required. Bathroom cleaned up, bathmat replaced, shelf pitched, bathroom completely re-organized, relaxation mode completely switched to killer adrenaline mode.

But I learned something, people. And since I’m a giver, I want to share the lesson with you:

 If you’re going to drink in the bath? PLASTIC GLASSES.