Hot Water
Watch, Wait/No, no baby/We might watch our whole lives, yeah/Don’t wait for the water
I live in a very old apartment building, if you can call it that. Based on its setup, I like to imagine that it used to be some sort of Little Italy tenement building for the poor. Every doorway once had a door, most have locks on both sides, there is a mysterious door that we can not open but presumably leads either to a hallway or into another apartment, there is no central heating, and the bathroom is a laughable addition, with no doorknob and a weird hole cut into the bottom of the door.
The most intriguing part of the bathroom is the tub, one of those old claw-foots, with peeling paint and a jerryrigged structure to hold up dual shower curtains (I think it involves coat hangers and spray paint). For a correct heat setting, the hot must be turned all the way up, but the cold just a little, but the correct settings vary so it doesn't even matter.
The tub and I seem to be having the aquatic version of a jealous love affair. It seems to be able to sense me wanting to move out of its stream to reach for something (from the press-board bookcase at the foot of the tub that serves as product shelving). Practically every time I lean away to grab shaving lotion or shampoo, the cold water pressure immediately disappears and my back is sprayed with scalding hot water. Its very protective.
I leap forward, away from the boiling droplets, into the small space available at the end of the tub. Then, I have to grab the outside shower curtain and wield it as a shield to protect me from permanent skin damage as I lean forward to adjust the temperature.
Invariably, it is hard to see because the the hot water quickly fills the small room with steam. I turn the hot water down, turn up the cold, and attempt to balance the extremes. But the water turns immediately loses all hot water pressure. At least I'm being frozen to death, not boiled alive. Five minutes of readjustments usually result in a return to the warm temperature I desire for a relaxing shower.
But dare I reach for another product, Exotic Coconut bath gel or my apricot face scrub, and the entire show starts over again, beginning with the squeal and leap to safety. At this point, I have almost forgotten what it feels like to take a long and relaxing hot shower that does not involve tinkering or protective safety measures.
The tub also seems to have a pretty profound desire for monogamy, because this has never happened to my roommate.
I live in a very old apartment building, if you can call it that. Based on its setup, I like to imagine that it used to be some sort of Little Italy tenement building for the poor. Every doorway once had a door, most have locks on both sides, there is a mysterious door that we can not open but presumably leads either to a hallway or into another apartment, there is no central heating, and the bathroom is a laughable addition, with no doorknob and a weird hole cut into the bottom of the door.
The most intriguing part of the bathroom is the tub, one of those old claw-foots, with peeling paint and a jerryrigged structure to hold up dual shower curtains (I think it involves coat hangers and spray paint). For a correct heat setting, the hot must be turned all the way up, but the cold just a little, but the correct settings vary so it doesn't even matter.
The tub and I seem to be having the aquatic version of a jealous love affair. It seems to be able to sense me wanting to move out of its stream to reach for something (from the press-board bookcase at the foot of the tub that serves as product shelving). Practically every time I lean away to grab shaving lotion or shampoo, the cold water pressure immediately disappears and my back is sprayed with scalding hot water. Its very protective.
I leap forward, away from the boiling droplets, into the small space available at the end of the tub. Then, I have to grab the outside shower curtain and wield it as a shield to protect me from permanent skin damage as I lean forward to adjust the temperature.
Invariably, it is hard to see because the the hot water quickly fills the small room with steam. I turn the hot water down, turn up the cold, and attempt to balance the extremes. But the water turns immediately loses all hot water pressure. At least I'm being frozen to death, not boiled alive. Five minutes of readjustments usually result in a return to the warm temperature I desire for a relaxing shower.
But dare I reach for another product, Exotic Coconut bath gel or my apricot face scrub, and the entire show starts over again, beginning with the squeal and leap to safety. At this point, I have almost forgotten what it feels like to take a long and relaxing hot shower that does not involve tinkering or protective safety measures.
The tub also seems to have a pretty profound desire for monogamy, because this has never happened to my roommate.
Comments
My old place on E.124th had a sloping living room. I had to put all bookshelves on the low side so they wouldn't tip over.