When Pandora Radio is blaring and I have already had three glasses of Mt. Dew, it is kind of hard not to dance in the shower.
Nickelback and Santana lured me into a false sense of security, which set me up to be sucker punched by Lynyrd Skynyrd. Now I am not even really a big fan of Skynyrd, but when "Sweet Home Alabama" is booming and you are suffering from caffeine intoxication, it's impossible not to bust a move--regardless of how soapy the shower floor is.
Approximately fifteen seconds later, the bar of soap squirted OUTSIDE of the shower, sending me into a sharp turn, running me into the shower caddy, knocking the shampoo bottle in the floor and simultaneously sending a very full, and therefore heavy, bottle of conditioner (because let's face it, I don't have as much hair as I use to that needs moisturizing) crashing down on my left big toe. This, of course, resulted in one legged hopping about the shower in pain in a very Dick Van Dyke fashion.
Meanwhile, one little spider sat up in the corner of the shower laughing his thorax off so hard his little web was shaking.
Then he said to me, "Seriously, dude? And women actually sleep with you? WTH?"
I had to admit the itsy bitsy spider had a point, and that ALMOST kept me from smearing his little arachnid, smart ass all over the wall.