October 5th, 2011

I listen

Rust on the soap

I was in the shower. (There, that'll delight at least a couple of people who read this.) Shampoo successfully deployed into my wet hair, I reached for the soap for cleaning the flesh parts of my body. The soap was on the metal rack I bought within days of moving into this apartment nine years ago --

-- which reminds me that this is the place where I've lived the longest so far in my life, longer even than the house in Oakton, Virginia where, in order not to have to move me and my brother T.J. into new schools, Dad willingly worked for the summer of 1987 down in Virginia's Tidewater area during the weeks and commuted back to Northern Virginia on the weekends. (It wasn't until the last couple of years that I really learned how much of an effort that was. Thank you, Dad.) We were in that house from early 1987 to early 1994. Me, I was mainly there until end of summer 1992, when I moved to Oregon for college. Still visited for a few more breaks, but Oregon was becoming my home then. I've now been here longer than there. Whoa. --

-- and that rack has hung from the shower head for those nine years. And that rack has gotten to the point when it's showing its age. Meaning: I had to spend some time scraping off the little lines of rust that had sunk into the bar.

Iiiiiiiiii likely don't want to wash with rust. Could that be like scrubbing my body with Brillo? Probably not that bad, but also not advised, either.

Remember, Chris: you are allowed to buy replacement stuff. For now, I have other places in the shower I can pit the soap and the shampoo while they wait to be put on me.

Aren't you glad you read this blog?