The Grim Reaper Wears a Shower Cap

So I finally figured out how I’m going to die. I am going to be that old lady you hear about who falls down in the bathtub. I’m not sure if I am going to knock myself out in the fall and drown in two inches of tub water, or if I’m going to break a hip, rendering myself unable to move and therefore end up simply starving to death in the bathroom. (Of course, I’ll have purchased that Life Alert/”I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up” system to guard against the later possibility, but much like my car keys, I’ll have long-since misplaced the transponder.)

This prediction regarding the circumstances of my demise isn’t the result of a morbid fascination with my own death. It’s simply the result of pattern recognition and the application of probability. Since March of this year, I have actually fallen down in the shower twice and slipped once (but caught myself before ending up on my ass). If these events occurred in the same tub, I’d blame the tub. But it’s now happened in two separate tubs so I can only conclude that the tub has nothing to do with it. I’m just a klutz who doesn’t know how to stand up in two inches of water. Probability tells me that given the number of showers I will take in my lifetime, more falls are sure to occur. It’s just a matter of time before one of the tumbles results in a fatal injury. There is only one sure-fire way to avoid meeting ye ole grim reaper while sprawled out on my naked butt in the shower, and that’s to stop showering. Not a very hygienically appealing option, so I’m open to suggestions.