My alarm sounded in the wee hours of the morning…just as it does every morning. Every time I wonder if working out this early is sane. I roll out of the bed hair askew, eyes only half open. As if on cue, Bella hops onto the bed taking my warm spot which prevents me from crawling back in. For a moment, I am jealous of her. Okay…more than a moment. However, once my heart and legs are pumping my morning routine is in full swing. Done with my work out, I step into the shower to wash away the sweat so I can begin my day. The lather bubbles up in my hair and then disappears down the drain. Nothing like a good shower to wake me up and get me ready for whatever comes my way.
This day is like all the others until I step out of the shower…or should I say…try to step out of the shower. I push and quickly realize I am trapped. The door to the glass box will not open. I push and push to no avail. The steam is escaping over the top and standing there dripping wet, I feel it’s absence. Assessing my situation I see that the small post thingy that makes up the hinge isn’t in the hole at the top of the door as it should be. This makes the door hang slightly crooked preventing the bottom of the door from opening. Seems an easy fix, just lift the door and wiggle it back into place. It might have been that easy if my hands had been dry…or the door had been dry…or there was a way to dry myself or the door. However, my towel hangs on the OUTSIDE of the door taunting me because it is not within reach. Several minutes of pushing and pulling only result in frustration, and lead me to plan B: screaming for help.
My night-working husband happens to be home on this morning, sleeping in the bedroom which is attached to the bathroom in which I am currently a prisoner. The door is closed but I am confident that when he hears his damsel in distress he will become wide awake in an instant and jump up to rescue me. That’s how it goes in my imagination at least. Reality is that a man who works hard some nights, and some days is always confused between when it is morning and when it is night. The sunrise will not cause him to stir because our room is completely blacked out with cardboard inserts to the windows that are then covered with black fabric. It is a cave. Not to mention he is hibernating with a thunderstorm (which I love) playing through the speakers to drown out all noise…including his wife screaming his name and banging on the glass shower door. It occurs to me pretty quickly that my cave dweller is not coming to the rescue, and there is only one child living at home. He is snug in his bed in the basement under a silent floor designed to prevent noise from escaping the formerly boy-filled basement. That is by design…drat!
I am on my own. I try to channel my inner MacGyver. What can I make with a bottle of shampoo and a razor? Maybe a shampoo bomb. Throw it over the top… but how would that help me? I decide splattering soap all over the bathroom wouldn’t be an effective solution. The only thing I can think of for the razor is slitting my wrists, and that seems an extreme measure in such an instance, plus it is a no nick razor so I am not even sure it would cut. Opening the door before hypothermia sets in seems more unlikely each minute that passes.
I begin to wonder what will happen when I do not show up to work without calling or getting a sub. Will someone come looking for me…I think that is highly unlikely. And if they did I am not sure I would want them to find me curled up on the floor of my glass box. My towel still hangs in front of me looking warm and cozy on the other side of the glass. Note to self: Throwing the towel over the top of the door before showering would prevent this chilly predicament in the future. To warm myself I am just about to turn the water back on and hope someone will wake up before I drain the hot water tank. I decide to gently try the door one more time. I pull first, then push and God must have heard my prayer because it came open, allowing me to exit just before it fell completely off its hinges. Being as I was one step out, I was able to catch it, preventing it from hitting the floor and shattering. I narrowly averted a disaster of epic proportions…shards of glass do not mix with bare skin. My escape to freedom is complete. Within minutes of my frantic explanation, my groggy but sorrowful husband had the door fixed. He was feeling badly that he had not heard my loud requests for his assistance sooner, but all was set right again and the day progressed in a normal manner.
Moral of the story: Even MacGyver had to have something to work with.