My only shower mishap was the time I pulled the soap dish out of the wall. You see they aren’t hand holds you can use to give you more leverage while fooling around in the shower.
The only one I can think of is the time I dropped something and squatted down to pick it up, banging my tailbone firmly on the faucet. That, people, is a special sort of pain.
When I was a kid, we had two cats who would chase each other around the house in more-or-less the same pattern. One of their paths was up the stairs, down the hall, into the bathroom, and then u-turn in the tub and out again.
One day, when nobody was home, my Mom was taking a bath, and had left the door open. She said she heard the cats running up the stairs, and then the next thing she saw was the lead cat in mid-air trying desperately to change course before landing with a huge splash. She said it was the funniest thing she’d ever seen, but she’s lucky she didn’t get scratched to ribbons…
Many years ago I spent a month backpacking through New Zealand. One of my trips was the Abel Tasman coastal trail with some folks I met touring. On our last day of hiking we wound up walking along a beautiful beach towards the hut by the park entrance and came across a shower, right on the beach - it’s just a little wooden platform to stand on and a wooden post with a shower head on top, running constantly. No curtain, no enclosure, just a grand view.
Several of us decide that a shower would do a world of good, and there’s an old log sitting there as a bench so that everyone can sit watching the bay while somebody is showering behind them (would have been fun to turn around since several of my party were cute girls from Sweden, but I was a gentleman).
Anyhow I’m last. Strip down, hop onto the platform and didn’t stop to think about where that constantly running stream of water must be coming from. It’s snowmelt runoff, a blistering 32.1 degrees F I reckon. So I’m standing on the beach by myself, shivering but getting clean, wondering how I’d react if more hikers turn up walking down that same stretch of coast.
Done showering so my normal instinct is to turn the water off, and I look for a faucet. No dice (snowmelt, remember) but in the course of looking around my feet skidded out from under me (that wood platform is wet, slippery with decades of soap residue and worn smooth by hundreds of feet) and for a moment I hung in midair, looking like Fred Flintstone getting his car up to speed, my legs windmilling uselessly, until gravity took over and I came down with a thud right on my knee.
Throw on a towel, limp back to the hut where everyone else is huddled up on the benches surrounding the little heater. I hobble in and tell everyone what happened. As I step forward, my other knee finds the edge of one of the benches.
Everyone else found this hysterical. I felt like I’d been beat up by the Mob. I was toting a bottle of wine on the hike so they took pity on me, we all got lit and I traded backrubs with one of the Swedish contingent 