Battleground

American Gladiators have the Gauntlet. Ultimate Fighters have the Octagon. Apartment 1C inhabitants have the bathroom, a 45x48 inch battleground where Ben and I fight for territory.

The bathroom is an okay size for me, or for Ben, but not for the both of us together. When alone, I have just enough square footage to blow-dry my hair or pluck my eyebrows. I have room to hike my leg over the toilet and moisturize. Ben, when alone, has just enough room to stretch his legs and escape with a good magazine for thirty, forty minutes.

The size, however, becomes problematic when we have to get ready at the same time, when our routines overlap. Good things never come out of it. I suffocate him with hairspray. He elbows me in the face. I splash water on his pants. He “accidentally” unplugs my curlers. I bump him while shaving.

Two bodies mean too little space. Coziness turns claustrophobic. Petulance outweighs peacefulness.

We realize that we have to accept our bathroom. Give each other space. Put one another first, which I have graciously done. Ben now gets ready first with the mirror I hung… in the kitchen.