The Camper Shower

     “Ouch!” I bumped my elbow on the wall of the tiny shower. Again. Bath time in the camper requires standing at the correct angle to prevent collisions. My tenth-grade geometry teacher is snickering in her coffee somewhere.

     Finishing my abbreviated shower, I turn to open the frosted glass door to my standing coffin. The first push yields no result. Oh, okay. Taking a deep breath, I push harder. No movement. The water in the basin sloshes over my toes as I whip around looking for a non-existent second exit.

Why don’t they put emergency exits in camper showers?

     Gripping the upper metal edge of the door, I slam the palm of my hand against the glass panel. Probably not the smartest move. Thankfully, it doesn’t break. It also doesn’t open. My breathing accelerates to match my racing pulse.

     Visions of my mortifying predicament play out across the screen of my mind. Someone would find me eventually. Would they find me wrinkled like a prune cowering in the corner? Or blue with cold hopping from foot to foot? It would probably be Tyler, my eldest son. He lives nearby and checks on me often.

     Being a fixer, I imagine scenarios to lessen my embarrassment. If he knocked on the bathroom door, I could tell him to grab a towel, back into the room, and toss it over the top of the shower? Or his wife could be with him and deliver my covering with averted eyes? Or I could somehow construct a rope out of the old washcloths in the shower to snag the towel on the wall outside the enclosure?

How I was found became less important as time dragged on.

     I remembered my cell phone on the sink beside the shower. Siri, however, was not cooperating. I beg her repeatedly, but she will not comply. What good is voice command if the listener won’t listen? “As soon as I get out of here, Siri, I’m changing your voice!”

     I perch precariously on the tiny ledge of the shower, chin in hand. Being a reasonably intelligent, mature woman, I should be able to think of something. Can’t force it. Can’t go over it. What can I do?

This shower door will not defeat me!

     Struggling to my sodden feet, I examine the faulty door again. Can’t push it out, maybe I can push up. Grabbing the metal bar, I push up and out at the same time. Victory! My prison releases its captive.

     Scrambling from the enclosure, I slap the offending door. It squeaks and rebounds onto my forehead. I sigh.

I never get the last word.

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