This is the 77th installment of a 100-day challenge to write a new vignette every morning.
He enjoys practicing his ballet in the bathroom. He’ll do some pirouettes or whatever and crash into the towel rack. He’ll do some leaps and knock over the trash can.
He’ll do it all when I have 20 minutes to get to work and I still haven’t showered. Banging on the door does nothing; his hoity-toity classical music drowns out any of my attempts to make noise.
Sure, I could talk to him at some point when the classical music is quiet—like when he’s eating soup or reading or going to bed—but that’s not really an option. A few weeks ago, I asked him to wash the blender after he uses it, and he looked at me with such sadness and guilt that I vowed to never criticize him again. So here we are, with me spraying dry shampoo in my hair and applying extra deodorant.
I ordered him a full-length mirror for Christmas. Just two more weeks—and then I’ll be able to go to work fresh and showered.
Miles Away 