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I lost my mind the other day. It just packed its bags and left — without as much as a 30-day notice. One day it was there, and the next day there was nothing but dirty bare walls and a few pieces of the worthless trash that tenants always leave behind when they move out.
It started when I got out of bed, eager to jump into the shower and start my day. (Okay, maybe I wasn’t exactly eager, since it happened to be Monday morning. But I was going to take a shower and start my day nonetheless.) I popped my head into the shower and turned the bathtub faucet on. Then I put my hand in the water and let out a shriek. The water was freezing. I did everything I could think of to make it warmer, but nothing worked. So I turned it back off, wrapped my bathrobe around me, and trudged to my office. There, I sleepily deleted my new junk mail from Krissy and her teen friends, who wanted to show me their plan for getting out of debt fast — or something like that. Then I went back to the shower.
At my first cautious feel, the water appeared to be slightly warmer than before. So I flipped the lever that switches the flow of water from the tub to the shower. Before stepping in, I tested the water one last time, only to discover that “slightly warmer” felt like it could perhaps be 45 degrees instead of 40—and there was still no way I was braving it. So I turned the water off again, put my robe back on, and once again trudged back to my office, where I spent the next 20 minutes or so gulping hot coffee and contemplating lacing up my boots and hiking through the snow to our apartment complex’s maintenance guy’s home and showing him what happens when our building doesn’t get any hot water. I figured the appearance of my hair alone would be enough to frighten him enough to get him to come right over and fix the problem — and that bringing along my largest frying pan as a weapon might not be necessary after all.
But I convinced myself to check the water once more — just to save myself the hassle of tormenting the maintenance guy while standing half-naked out in the snow. I returned to the bathroom, popped my head in the shower, and once again turned on the faucet — only to be drenched by a shower of numbing water. I screamed and whipped my cold, damp head out of the shower, furiously stomping on the floor as I reached into the shower to switch the little lever back to the tub setting before once again shutting the water off.
I then stomped through the apartment, my head slowly freezing as water dripped down my face. I shook with cold as well as with growing insanity.
Monday morning.
No hot water.
Inboxes full of stupid junk mail.
Unexpected freezing-cold downpour.
A few cups of strong coffee.
Greasy, unwashed bed-head.
I could feel it all bubbling up to the surface as I paced faster and faster through the apartment. And in a last-ditch effort to hold on to the last remnant of my sanity, I reached for the phone to call a friend. Only she could calm me down. She was my only hope.
No dial tone.
The phone was dead.
Apparently, the phone company had once again decided to save some extra cash by randomly shutting off our phone. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.
But that, I’m quite sure, was the exact moment when my mind up and left. I can’t blame it, really — can you?
I am, however, looking for a new tenant to fill the space and help me earn a little bit of spare cash. So if you know of any nice hermit crabs who are looking for a new place to live, please let them know that the space between my ears is available.
