So, it’s very early (7:30am or so) on a Saturday morning. As far as I know, Hubby is still dealing with his red-eye flight from Phoenix to Richmond. The closest I imagine he is to home is disembarking at the airport. Which leaves me about an hour until he arrives.
I’m in the shower.
The water pressure goes all screwy. Hard, then soft, then hard again. I mumble to myself, “Whassup with the water pressure?” as I bend down to check the faucet. I’m wondering if I put a load of laundry in that I forgot about?
“Don’t know. What is up?” says a deep, scary voice that then proceeds to slowly pull the curtain back…
Alfred Hitchcock and Janet Leigh are swimming through my head…
I scream for all I’m worth, swear with words I would never use in front of children, and try to keep myself from both fainting and ripping the shower curtain down off the rod. My blood pressure and heart rate shoot to the sky, and my feet try to find a gripping place (in a soapy shower) for the eternal ‘fight or flight’. I attempt the ‘fight’ stance. I must’ve looked ridiculous.
It’s Hubby. He wanted to surprise me.
He damn near killed me.
Hubby, for all I know, is still chuckling about this encounter. I’m still trying to control my breathing.
Not funny, damnit.