Sabrina was about to come over for our weekly Top Model viewing (complete with photo shoot), but before she did so, I needed to bathe. Bathing with a broken foot is far from a graceful process. First, you have to view the bathroom the way pigeon-toed octogenarians view sidewalks in January: slippery surfaces everywhere, high likelihood of falling. Fortunately, we have a ballet barre installed in our bathroom along with enormous mirrors. (It's very "The Lady of Shanghai goes to the Joffrey.") So after resting my crutches against the wall, I pull myself along the barre to sit on the closed seat of the toilet. Lookin' good already!
After running the bath, I disrobe and put on the leg condom. Because I am concerned about getting the cast wet, I stuff the top of it with towels and then tape the whole thing shut. Now, at that point, it's best to sink into the tub reeee-alll slow-like, swinging the prophylactic leg over the side to keep it away from the evil, evil water. The position looks just as dignified and classy as you'd imagine. (Please don't imagine.) Then you take your bath like anyone else, except you worry about falling flat on your face when getting out of the tub.
Showering is more difficult, and it makes me feel less secure. I worry that the water will trickle down into the leg condom, impregnating my cast with whatever disaster water brings to bandaged appendages. Therefore, showers are to be taken only when time prohibits the safer and more luxurious bath option. Today was one of those days, so I donned the leg condom and got to work. I stood like a flamingo with one leg sticking out of the shower stall, anchoring myself with one hand and using the other to soap up. The contortions must have looked like bad interpretive dance, but I managed to shampoo and condition my hair well, so there. It wasn't until I soaped up that I looked down and realized that in putting the leg condom on with focused intensity, I'd forgotten to remove my underpants. Yes, I am 31 years old and I apparently do not know how to take a shower.
After running the bath, I disrobe and put on the leg condom. Because I am concerned about getting the cast wet, I stuff the top of it with towels and then tape the whole thing shut. Now, at that point, it's best to sink into the tub reeee-alll slow-like, swinging the prophylactic leg over the side to keep it away from the evil, evil water. The position looks just as dignified and classy as you'd imagine. (Please don't imagine.) Then you take your bath like anyone else, except you worry about falling flat on your face when getting out of the tub.
Showering is more difficult, and it makes me feel less secure. I worry that the water will trickle down into the leg condom, impregnating my cast with whatever disaster water brings to bandaged appendages. Therefore, showers are to be taken only when time prohibits the safer and more luxurious bath option. Today was one of those days, so I donned the leg condom and got to work. I stood like a flamingo with one leg sticking out of the shower stall, anchoring myself with one hand and using the other to soap up. The contortions must have looked like bad interpretive dance, but I managed to shampoo and condition my hair well, so there. It wasn't until I soaped up that I looked down and realized that in putting the leg condom on with focused intensity, I'd forgotten to remove my underpants. Yes, I am 31 years old and I apparently do not know how to take a shower.
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