hot water | Miss Demure Restraint

What would happen if I woke lost in the woods? Well, there’s a bit to take into consideration when pondering such a dilemma. There are some rugged individuals that love the wilderness and “roughing it.” That’s not me. I deem “roughing it” to be staying in a hotel that doesn’t have room service. I don’t want to wake up to the sounds of wildlife just beyond a thin piece of polycotton fabric. I don’t want to wake up to animal noises at all! I want Eggs Benedict delivered to my room, not bacon half-cooked on an open fire. Besides, when is the last time anyone managed a decent 24-ounce soy, vanilla latte without the assistance of a well-trained barista? It just don’t happen people!

I have needs, especially when I rise in the morning. There are things I have to do before I’m ready to face the world. Believe me, the world wants it that way. The first requirement to start any day is a shower. Standing naked in a cold stream, river or lake is torment, not cleansing. Any proper shower includes hot water, lots and lots of hot water. The purpose of this ritual is to slowly re-introduce my psyche to consciousness. I must have a minimum of 30 minutes of basting in perfectly-regulated, temperate H₂O to wash away the wicked witch that occupies my body upon waking. She is not something any human or animal wants to make contact with . . . trust me on this.

I further find it essential to have another 30 minutes for my hair care regime. In addition to applying the necessary “products,” any hair dryer must have the requisite diffuser to effect proper styling of my hair. I am in complete agreement with The Sheeple Liberator when it comes to the inadequate nature of hotel dryers and find it necessary to transport my own hair care appliances with me wherever I go. These devices only operate with electricity. Last time I checked, there are no electrical outlets available in the woods. This is really ironic when you consider, the only hair style obtainable without electricity looks rather like I’ve stuck my finger in a socket.

Lastly, I put my face on in the morning. It is for the protection of small children and those easily frightened. I’m considerate that way. I wouldn’t want to scar anyone for life. I know what I look like without the benefit of Loreal, Cover Girl and M A C . . . it’s not pretty. It would be a crime against humanity to run around without making every attempt possible to protect the general public. It would only be good manners to extend this courtesy to woodland creatures. I have also learned I need a mirror with very good lighting or I’m liable to look like Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? Still, there is an argument to be made for that being better than nothing at all.

The outcome to my waking lost in the woods is fairly easy to predict. There would, of course, be the screaming . . . ear-piercing screaming with intermittent pitiful wailing. Anyone tracking down the source of the shrieks and cries would come upon a very ill-tempered, smelly ogress obscured by a mass of unruly hair with a terrifying visage dominated by wild eyes. All trace of humanity gone with the loss of my modern conveniences. I would surely be mistaken for some long-lost missing link.

Now, this train of thought brings me to a simple conclusion. There is a mythical monster that roams the woods issuing strange bellows; angrily bashing the woodsy foliage; covered in a coat of matted, stinking fur with glowering orbs. What else can be made of this? Big Foot is nothing more than some poor woman forced into a wilderness vacation – most likely by some Bear Gryllis-wannabe spouse – unexpectedly awakened in the forest . . . lost, scared and deprived of the most basic necessities.