Why men and women should not share a bathroom

Why men and women should not share a bathroom. We do, obviously, we aren’t that well-heeled that we can afford an on suite, although the house is that small that the bathroom is only a couple of steps away from the bedroom.

Standing in the shower today I had to once again pull down the shower head. Mark is 6’ 4inch tall. I’m not. He calls me short but I will say I stand taller than most of my friends. Except Jacqui and Julie, female friends that is. So, every morning I have to pull the shower head down. It sounds so easy, flip the catch on the pole and when the shower has slid to the required height, flip the catch back up again. When I find the bugger that invented the bloody shower system in my house I’m going to grab him by the scruff of the neck and shove his head under cold running water. The catch is touchy. Seriously touchy. In some positions it sticks and stays, but in others it does one of two things, it either slowly releases its grip, allowing the shower head to gracefully glide down the pole like a well-rehearsed pole dancer as it twists and turns, spraying water from one side of the cubicle to the other, or it shouts gotcha and just let’s go, as the shower head comes crashing down on top of me. Either way I spend my morning shower either getting sprinkled from on high, constantly adjusting the heads direction or getting clunked. If Mark wasn’t so tall I’d nail the head to the bloody wall at the perfect height. Every morning, well not every morning, sometimes I forget, but Mark doesn’t mention it, but most mornings I put the head back to its highest position for Mark. Never bloody falls down on him.

Then there is the sink. We are shavers. I say that because there are those that do not know the trauma a shaver goes through. I have tried the Salon waxing, politely being told by the beautician that there wasn’t enough hair on my legs to wax. She was very apologetic and gave me a facial for free because she felt so awkward. But I still shave in the bath, and I clean it as well when I’ve finished. My house might look like the stage set of the junk yard in the Labyrinth but my bathroom is always clean. It’s a thing of mine. If I haven’t got time to do anything else, I always have time for my bathroom. Mark, and if this seems like a whinge, it is, is a sink shaver. Ok I’ve just had a vision of him with one leg perched on the edge of the sink, razor in hand, all foamed up. Men do that, don’t they. They must do, check it out the next time you’re at the beach. All men have perfectly smooth shins. Mark puts it down to wearing motorbike boots, the rubbing has worn away the follicles and the hairs have never grown back. At this point I have to mention that he is bald as well, far too much helmet wearing. Mark doesn’t wear glasses and I think it’s vanity, I love mine, they add an intelligent sophistication to my personality. That is when I can find them, they are frameless and when you’re blind it’s a nightmare finding them in the morning. I’m not that blind that when I clean my teeth I don’t see the shavings left behind by Marks trim and slim. He does it for effect. Men with Goatees are so vain, think about it. They are basically saying, “I’m a man, look at me I have a beard.” Whilst adding, “but I like to look good and a Goatee takes at least 3inch off my face.” Vanity. If only he had his own sink!

The bath is used once a week, it’s perfect, I can lie down, sink my head into the deep warm water, shutting out the world. I like to imagine things in the bath, the warm water enveloping my naked body. Stop right there, not that kind of thing. I like to imagine I’m in a floatation tank. The light off, in semi-darkness, well I’ve got to be able to find the soap! Until I move and find that the water has dropped three degrees and my wrinkles would win first price at Crufts in the Chinese Shar Pei division. Mark on the other hand looks like a hermit crab desperately looking for a new home. He has had back ache lately so I ran the bath for him, gave up my secret stash of muscle relaxant bubble bath and my floating neck rest and left him too it. It wasn’t long before I heard a rip-roaring dull dragging noise as he tried to sit up, and a scream of agony. I ran to his aid, well after I’d said, “What the Fluff?” “Are you alright?” “What are you doing?” Put down my knitting, and petted the dog. I didn’t know whether to laugh or just leave. The bath may be perfect for me; however, our Mark has a foot problem. Three to be exact, the left one that sits on the rim of the bath next to the hot tap, the right one that sits on the rim on the right next to the cold tap and the extra foot in length that doesn’t fit in the bath. His shoulders were scrunched into the bath where I am able to sway from side to side imagining I’m swimming with dolphins. It was funny but he really needs his own tanker, sorry a bigger bath.

We don’t mention the toilet. Having moved from a house with two, the sheer hell of only having one is horrifying. Ok we do mention the toilet. There is a secret toilet at the end of the yard which is totally unusable. (If anyone from DIY SOS is reading this I am a woman suffering from MMWC. Man Monopolising Water Closet syndrome and am in desperate need of a yard makeover to turn my outdoor privy into a functioning toilet.) All I can say is I am sooooo grateful to my daughter for giving me her camping commode, it has come in really handy, but the dog gets very confused when she sees me sitting on a chair under taking my morning ablutions. I just hope she doesn’t get the wrong idea; not sure the settee could take that much punishment.

My father had the right idea, he put up a partitioning wall. He would be in the toilet for an hour at a time. The newspaper, the crossword puzzle and I’m sure I heard him snoring from time to time. Now its FB, internet searches and the news broadcast. We need separate bathrooms; no woman should have to suffer this.

There is the constant territory war that takes place on the tall boy, the Christmas cactus left to us by his mother that is now big enough to bring down stairs once a year to dress in fairy lights, my books that I read once a week in the bath, his emergency charger for his tablet, smoky stick and any other electric stuff he takes in with him. His electric shaver, it has a draw, a place to live, honestly, but it never quite makes it unless I give it a helping hand. And I could swear I saw a nose hair trimmer up there once, although Mark would never admit it and I haven’t seen it since. And magazines, motorcycle magazines.

My point is, my father warned me never to marry a man that spent more time in the bathroom than me. He warned me about a few other things as well, like keeping my own bank account, but that’s another story. He should have warned me to buy a house that had two separate bathrooms, cutting marital disagreements by half, especially the age old, toilet seat argument. Honestly if it was not meant to be put down, toilet seats would never have been invented. I’m quite willing to stand and wee as long as Mark is willing to do his share of toilet cleaning. I digress and I said I wouldn’t mention the toilet.

Unfortunately, some of us are not only bound by marriage but also by bathrooms. We may argue and moan at each other about our bathroom habits, but there is also something really comforting about being able to sneak in for a quick wee whilst the husband is in the shower, especially when you forget, and flush. Or is that just me?

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