This morning after breakfast, I headed upstairs. I threw on a T-shirt (oh hey by the way, Canadians call tennis shoes "runners" and think we're dorky to call them something different. I've been meaning to mention that and the 't' in t-shirt reminded me. And now I want to know what the 't' stands for...), put my hair in a ponytail, and ran up the stairs. Because my fellow shower cleaner and I are both ridiculously nice people, we are engaged in an ongoing and unstated sort of passive-aggressive fight over the cleaning of the fifth shower. Up until this point, I had not yet won.
Now to most who might be reading this, that may sound a little disappointing. Maybe you think I'm lazy or slow, or that I really have been eating as much as I claim to be and have therefore gained significant weight, rendering me incapable of victory. But you're WRONG. Why? Because she's from Germany. German people clean like no one's business. It's absurd. And yes I shamelessly promote a stereotype in saying that. But you haven't seen the little modest smirk she has on her face every time I rush into that last shower, sweaty, water splashed all over the bottom half of my jeans, hair sticking out in all directions, squeegee in one hand, sponge and chemicals in another, only to see her drying off the final bit of water on a stinking spotless, shimmering fifth dorm room shower.
It's infuriating.
And so I trained. It was like the karate kid all over again. I cleaned showers in my dreams. I wore my plastic gloves all the time so I was prepared at a moment's notice. None of those things are true at all, but they should help you to imagine the intensity of my resolve.
So this morning as I sprinted up that flight of stairs, The Eye of the Tiger played on a loop at top volume in my ears. Her chemical bottle was still there when I reached the supply closet at the end of the hall and I knew this was my chance for conquest. I gathered my supplies and hid hers and the race was on.
As a motivational tool, I started with the least enjoyable showers to clean. Grab the shower head like a gun out of a holster. Rinse. Scrub. Rinse. Dry. Shower one: complete. Shower two presented me with a wad of stubborn, rotting hair, but nothing could slow me down. Move to the next room. No floors to clean here. Start with the one farthest from the window. Shower three finished.
Rushing into shower four, I said a quick prayer and began. I flung the curtain out of my way. Rinse. Scrub-ish. Rinse. Looking down, I noticed a wet hair stuck to one of my gloves. I tried to rinse it off with the shower head, but it refused to budge. In a panic, I rushed out of the shower, banging my elbow on the door as I went out. With my other sagging, sopping, glove-covered hand, I frantically tried to remove the hair. The seconds felt like hours. And then I had it between my forefingers! Stuck! Like it was stinking super-glued to my glove! I banged my hand against the inside of the trash can. Hysteria was setting in.
Ditching my gloves, I surrendered myself to the inevitable cancer that is to come as a result, and dried the fourth shower. I walked into the fifth shower like a conqueror. The light from the frosted window that made up half of its far wall shone on my face. Probably, I shimmered. Taking my ear buds out in order to more fully enjoy my triumph, I turned to grab my washrag. There stood my fellow shower cleaner. She looked shocked. In an effort to throw salt in her wound, I smiled at her calmly and said, "Don't worry about it. I've got it," and watched her walk out the door defeatedly. When she was gone, I performed a jumping air punch for the benefit of the various bacteria who shared my company, and cleaned that fifth shower like a gold medalist running his cool down lap in the Olympics.
That is all.
Luke 5:31
Jesus answered them, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick."
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