"I'm going to have a quick shower!" I say, heading up the stairs.
"O....kay..." This from David in the kitchen, his tone oddly sarcastic.
"Pardon?" I say - ducking down to catch his eye.
"Nothing," he shrugs before smiling falsely.
The temperature in the room has dropped about 15 degrees.
"Is something going on?" I ask.
"No, no, not at all..." He stands there belligerently.
I take a step further up the stairs, but then step back down. "Are you sure nothing's going on?"
He heaves a deep, frustrated sigh. "It's just that you don't really have quick showers," he says aggressively. "And we have to eat in 15 minutes."
My spirit crushed, I sit down on the stairs. "Pardon? I can have a quick shower..."
With a slightly patronizing eye-roll he says, "Yes, sure... yeah you can."
"I CAN have a quick shower!!"
"Uh-huh." He's standing there, chest puffed out - looking ready to do a Krump battle.
"I CAN. I'm going upstairs right now and you'll just see how quick!"
"O...kay..." His hands up now in a Whoa... Whoa... who's the crazy lady? gesture.
"Guys," says Rissa. "This is not important."
"It IS!" I say stomping up the stairs.
I shoulder my way into the bathroom - my clothes off in mili-seconds. The water is thrown on, I don't even adjust the temperature. "See if I can't have a quick shower..." I rinse my scalp and then slather on the conditioner, grabbing the back scrubber and smearing it with Grapefruit body wash. Scrub... scrub... scrub... arms done! Armpits done! Legs done! Hoo-ha (gently) done! Feet done! Hair, rinsed. Water off. Out. Towel on. Moisturizer on. Towel off. Leave-in conditioner in. Drag my fingers through my hair. Grab the mousse and apply palmfuls of product to my curls. Scrunch. Scrunch again. I speed-walk to the bedroom. I grab my bathrobe, tying it as I come downstairs.
David and Rissa are still making Kraft dinner. I sit triumphantly on the sofa. I muffle my "HAH!" as best I can. I glance pointedly at David. Showed him. Now would be the time to sit in regal silence.
"Yes you did. I am sorry for doubting you."
He has apologized. I should accept it gracefully. "If you want to talk time wasted in the bathroom, how about the 45 minutes that you can spend? Just sitting, over top of your own pooh!"
At this moment, with the word "pooh' ringing through my ears, I realize that I might not be as rational as I'd felt just 6.5 minutes before.
"It is possible," I say (quietly). "That I am a titch hormonal. I thought I was done being hormonal for the week, but I was incorrect. The floodgates have opened once more and I am now attributing paranoid judgmental adjectives to everyone's speech patterns." I do an internal check - my rage has dissipated. "I think I'm safe again."