It's the little things that drive you crazy.

I came to that conclusion one evening last semester as I was trying to take a shower.  I say 'trying' as though it were some difficult feat, and considering I'm only thirty, that shouldn't be such a hard thing to do.  And yet...well, let me just tell you about it, and then you can decide.

I live on the bottom floor of a three level house.  The only bathroom with a shower is on the top floor.  As there are six of us living with one shower, Heather and I have tried to make a system to allow for many people to keep what they need in the one bathroom.  We put up towel hooks - one hook for each person.  The adult hooks are high on the wall, the children's hooks are lower.  The idea is that people only use the towel on their own hook.  Sounds efficient, right?  Right.

I'm pretty meticulous when it comes to putting my towel on my own hook.  It's an easy thing to do.  My hook.  My towel.

On this particular night, I head upstairs to take my shower, confident that my towel would be hanging where I'd put it the night before.  I got up to the bathroom.  I looked inside.  A towel hung on Heather's hook.  A towel hung on Lane's hook.  A towel hung on Lacey's hook...Leanne's...Lance's...

No towel hung on mine.

I bit my lip.  I've gotten pretty good at controlling my outward reactions to things, but I could feel my blood pressure rise.

I set my PJs down on the counter and went to the closet across the hall where clean towels are kept.  It was empty.   I pursed my lips and proceeded to go down the two flights of stairs to the laundry room to see if there were any clean towels downstairs.  I checked the baskets.  No towels.  I checked the drier.  No towels.

At this point, let me just say, it was lucky the family was gone and there weren't any kids around to get in my way.  I was pretty steamed.  I wanted to know who had used my towel and why they had used my towel, when CLEARLY their towel was hanging just TWO FEET AWAY!

But there was no one present to interrogate, so I went back up the stairs to the kitchen and fetched a clean kitchen towel.  At least I didn't have to wash my hair that night.

I went up again to the bathroom, undressed, and stepped into the shower.  Instinctively, I glanced around for my washcloth.  It was not hanging on the bar...it lay in a sodden mess on the bottom of the tub.

I don't swear often, I really don't, but I cannot swear now that I didn't swear then.  I imagine if I had been a cartoon character, clouds of steam would be billowing from my ears at this point in the story.  I stepped out of the tub, dressed again (because, remember, I only had a kitchen hand towel), and went once more to the closet on the other side of the tiny upstairs hall where the clean washcloths are meant to be kept.

There were no clean washcloths.

Grumbling angrily, I ran down the two flights of stairs to my own room.  I have a stash of washcloths that belong just to me in one of my drawers, and from this stash I pulled a clean washcloth.

At last I could take my shower.

Since that night, I have tried to remember to take my washcloth and towel with me to my own room when I finish.  The problem with that is, if I forget to bring the towel up with me when it is time to shower, I have to run all the way back to my room to fetch it.

The other day, I took a shower and forgot to take my towel out.  The next day when I went to use it...you guessed it.  A child had used my towel...again when towels hung on the children's hooks.

This is my third year living with Heather and her children.  Heaven knows I love them, but only God knows if I'm going to finish this mission with my sanity in tact.