(A Prince Edward Island campground. Early morning.)
The sun’s up and the sky is cloudless. It’s going to be an awesome day of beaches, boardwalks, and spending money on pirate memorabilia. I head towards the nearest washroom facility to our campsite, and it’s completely empty. I’m pleased about this; I’ve beat the insane crowd that normally hits this place in the morning. I go into one of the two shower stalls, and, having forgotten my flip-flops, I stand one foot on a plastic bag, and the other on the empty box from my bar of soap. I’m always careful not to let my bare feet touch the floor. The stall is comically tiny. At any given moment, most of me is touching the slimy walls. This disgusts me, but I do what I always do in order to get through something gross, I imagine how much worse it would have been for cavemen. Cavemen (and cavewomen), they probably had to shower in much smaller stalls, and they were probably even slimier than this one. They probably didn’t even have soap, and I bet they had to use dead birds for flip-flops, and squirrels for face-cloths and luffas. I shower away, thinking about cavepeople, and then I hear someone enter the shower stall beside mine. I hear voices, two voices, speaking French. [French people seem to love camping, ever notice that?] At first I think one of them is waiting his turn outside the stall, but then I realize, no, there are two people in the same undersized shower stall. I listen really carefully now. One voice calls the other voice, “Dad”. Aha! All’s well, it’s a father and son. No big deal. The father probably didn’t want his little kid to be alone and unattended in a campground bathroom while he showered. I get that. I ignore them as best I can even though they keep shaking the stall and squeaking against the slimy walls as they try to shower at the same time. I go back to thinking about cavepersons and how they would probably try to ignore other showering cavepersons even though they were probably right in front of one another with no shower-stall walls. I finish my disgusting shower, stand on my dirty t-shirt until my feet are dry, then I sneaker-up and exit the stall. I’m brushing my teeth in front of the sinks when the other shower-stall opens. A man in his late-40’s/early-50’s, clearly the father, exits the tiny stall. Behind him, I expect to see a little boy; instead, a damn-near 6-foot tall teenager with stubble on his face steps out.
The sun’s up and the sky is cloudless. It’s going to be an awesome day of beaches, boardwalks, and spending money on pirate memorabilia. I head towards the nearest washroom facility to our campsite, and it’s completely empty. I’m pleased about this; I’ve beat the insane crowd that normally hits this place in the morning. I go into one of the two shower stalls, and, having forgotten my flip-flops, I stand one foot on a plastic bag, and the other on the empty box from my bar of soap. I’m always careful not to let my bare feet touch the floor. The stall is comically tiny. At any given moment, most of me is touching the slimy walls. This disgusts me, but I do what I always do in order to get through something gross, I imagine how much worse it would have been for cavemen. Cavemen (and cavewomen), they probably had to shower in much smaller stalls, and they were probably even slimier than this one. They probably didn’t even have soap, and I bet they had to use dead birds for flip-flops, and squirrels for face-cloths and luffas. I shower away, thinking about cavepeople, and then I hear someone enter the shower stall beside mine. I hear voices, two voices, speaking French. [French people seem to love camping, ever notice that?] At first I think one of them is waiting his turn outside the stall, but then I realize, no, there are two people in the same undersized shower stall. I listen really carefully now. One voice calls the other voice, “Dad”. Aha! All’s well, it’s a father and son. No big deal. The father probably didn’t want his little kid to be alone and unattended in a campground bathroom while he showered. I get that. I ignore them as best I can even though they keep shaking the stall and squeaking against the slimy walls as they try to shower at the same time. I go back to thinking about cavepersons and how they would probably try to ignore other showering cavepersons even though they were probably right in front of one another with no shower-stall walls. I finish my disgusting shower, stand on my dirty t-shirt until my feet are dry, then I sneaker-up and exit the stall. I’m brushing my teeth in front of the sinks when the other shower-stall opens. A man in his late-40’s/early-50’s, clearly the father, exits the tiny stall. Behind him, I expect to see a little boy; instead, a damn-near 6-foot tall teenager with stubble on his face steps out.
Think about that.
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