Because I'm like a 5-year-old, I stood in the shower with shampoo suds running down my back, desperately attempting to craft a mohawk. I was close. Really close. Until my tower of Soap Hair came crashing down, slapping my face directly in the right eye.
Shit, I thought to myself. My plan's been foiled. But more importantly, help. I have soap suds in my EYE. I put on my best "Please help me, please" face, and stand frozen, waiting for someone to take the soap out of my eye.
The Fiance springs to action.
"Oh," he says, as he surveys the damage. "Don't move."
He works meticulously to remove all of the suds from in or around my eye region. I stand still, terrified to open my eye. The burning. Oh, the burning. It would be lethal. Why must I tempt fate and make mohawks with the shampoo in my hair? Why?
And with a final sweep of his thumb, my eye is cleared of soap debris.
"OK, it's safe to open it now."
I contemplate. What if there's still soap remnants? What if I open my eye, and subsequently go blind? Why, God, must I behave like I'm five? But, hesitantly, I open my eye. Slowly. And it doesn't burn.
The Fiance stands before me, rather pleased. Me? Well, I'm not blind.
"I just saved your life, you know."