I was rubbing and scrubbing away at my vast, expansive body. I’m in that semi-catatonic just-awake state that I’m sure you’ve all experienced; you know, when you wake up up after just 4 hours sleep, and while the idea of going back to sleep sounds lovely, you have to be somewhere, or do something.
So there you are, teetering, only just standing upright under the jets of water. You can feel sensation slowly returning to your feet and your hands. You’re having a glorious moment; you’re coming alive!
It’s around this point, the point where I’ve become sentient yet again, that my brain kicks in. I slowly come to realise that, yet again, I am doing one of the most boring things in the world. Ever. Showering (and shaving!) are probably the two things I despise most in this world. Ethnic cleansing? Pretty bad. AIDS? Awful, I agree. But being obligated to shower and shave 300 or more times each and every fucking year is akin to having your testicles injected with fish paste and dangled in a hungry pool of piranhas.
I’m sorry, I just can’t even begin to imagine what showering will be like for me in 60 years. ‘Oh, hello there Mr Leg, are you enjoying this as much as me? We’ve only done this twenty thousand times before…’ I really and sincerely hope someone will have invented some kind of ultrasonic cleaning device shakes the dirt from me while I sit here in front of my computers. Contemplating the alternative, a life resplendent with 20 minute bouts of terminal boredom, my brow furrows as I fathom just how many days I will have spent showering, by the time I’m 80. I drop the soap.
It takes about 15-20 minutes a day to shower and shave (a conservative estimate — I’m huge, remember, it takes time to get into all those nooks and crannies), if you multiply that out, assuming 300 showers a year, that’s 100 hours. That’s over 4 days a year I spend doing basic personal hygiene. If you assume you’ve showered since you were 5, by the time you are 80 you will have spent 308 days showering and shaving. ALMOST A GODS DAMN YEAR OF YOUR LIFE.
So, I’ve become sentient and self-aware, and I’m thinking: Shit, I’m showering… yet again… isn’t this fun. And then I thought to myself: What if I was a girl? I would have to exfoliate, and body scrub, and depillate. I’d probably be spending 30, 40, 50 minutes a day making myself presentable — every frackin’ day! If a woman spends twice as much time as a man making herself look pretty, she’ll probably have spent 2 years of her life in the bathroom, by the time she’s 80. 2 years. Sweet Moses.
Can someone please think of a way to remove this incessant, never-ending drivel from our lives?
Anyway, I started thinking about women, in the shower. No, this isn’t leading where you think it is — scrub your mind! No, I was washing my ample bosoms when I suddenly thought: Why do men have nipples? I mean, I’m not complaining, obviously — you have to love it when a girl goes to town on your nipples — but really, why do we have them? Just for sexual gratification? To provide a way for evil kids to bully you? (‘nipple/titty-twisting’ occurred at your school too, right?)
I kind of knew the answer already, but still I did a little research. It’s the standard stuff — we all start off as girls, until testosterone kicks in and we sprout a penis and our ovaries become testicles. Nipples are there from before we start generating testosterone, so we get lumped with them for the rest of our lives. I did come across one fairly-funny thing though — male breasts can still make milk. If we get a jolt of oestrogen, our mammary glands can become functional! We could breast feed!
I’ll end this now, before some wise-ass feminist suggests men should stay at home and look after the babies, while the mother goes out to make money, and sleep with the secretary.