Wet Feet

So while browsing our computer the other day Mike found this paper that he wrote for school soon after we were married. He really enjoys writing and is super clever. I know it's long, but it's pretty humorous, and I thought you might enjoy it.



By Michael Sharp
Wet Feet

My Drain is clogged again. This realization came to me as I showered this morning. My inundated feet were already feeling soggy by the time I hit the shampoo. By the time I reached for the towel, the mucky shower water was up past my ankles. Since I got married, three months ago, we have almost gone through a whole gallon of the, “guaranteed to work” extra strength drain unclogger that we picked up from the Wal-Mart. Although a good deal of the blame for this pet peeve of mine can be credited to the sixty year old pipes snaking their way through the underground of our apartment, I can’t help but feel like this problem would be ameliorated if me, and especially my wife, did not have hair.
The fact that girls have hair, and a whole lot more than boys (for the most part), is something that I am relearning now that I am living with a female again. Not that I mind. In fact I quite enjoy hair when it is on a girls head, but off the head is when I start to have grief with it. Boys beware: It starts with little golden strands on your car seat and on your couch. Then as you get more serious you start noticing long hairs on your clothes and your cuddling blankets. An engagement is a time of hectic planning, taking a surplus amount of pictures and learning how to spit hair out of your mouth without offending your fiancée. Then you get married and your apartment becomes one well hidden hair hangout where all your wife’s curls can drape about the bed, bathroom, kitchen, and carpet.
I guess it’s hard for me to figure out how I ever forgot about this quandary. I’m definitely no stranger to girl hair. I grew up in a household with seven fully haired females. Even from the early years of my life I was picking out my sister’s entangled tresses out of combs and brushes, snaking more drains than Mario and Luigi, plucking hair out of food as I tried to forget about the bacterial contamination, and cleaning up the always hair coated bathroom counter. Cleaning up hair is the worst. If you have ever tried picking up a hair and throwing it in the garbage, it is likely that you grabbed it, and as you tried to fling the hair off your hand you just ended up transferring it from your thumb to your index finger and then thumb again. So if it wasn’t already bad enough that you have to touch the thing, you are forced with skin to hair contact until you are smart enough to grab it with a piece of toilet paper or something and then chuck it in to the garbage. For eighteen years I dealt with this. Then I finally moved out and lived in a relatively low hair situation with all boys for six years, until I decided to get married and live again with the hair.
Now I’m not suggesting that girls should start to sport the Sinead O’Conner look. A female’s mane is one of god’s most beautiful creations. I guess it’s true that you can’t have your cake and eat it too. Or in my case, you can’t have your cake and eat it without a long blonde hair in the middle of it. I suppose this law is what prevents me from being able to stroke my fingers through the soft waves of my wife’s beautiful hair and not come out of it with a fistful of hairball. Hopefully some day I’ll be able to invent a giant hair sucker, that vacuums all the loose hairs off of a girl’s head every morning before she looses them all in the shower. Until then, I suppose that as my wife lives with the horrid singing that accompanies my splashing through the clogged shower, (as well as my unique body odors, lack of cleanliness, use of the word, “booyah!”, tooth paste gargling, and facial hair in the bathroom sink), I can deal with a little bit of girl hair. But don’t be surprised if you see a woman some time in the future with a large vacuum covering their scalp, it might just be my wife.