Thursday, February 11, 2021

I Wish I Didn't Believe It

The Pony sent me a text at 7:29 p.m. on Tuesday. 

"Ghost news! My phone just got smacked into the water while sitting in the middle of the tub's edge thing. Perfectly level and fine for half an hour, then bam! It's waterproof. So it's fine."


The Pony takes a two-hour bath in the big triangle tub in the master bathroom every night. He always has his phone with him. No previous problems with it. I'd really like to think The Pony just mishandled his phone and dropped it in the tub. But if he'd done that, why would he even tell me about his phone getting wet? What I don't know won't hurt me, right? No damage to the phone. Why would The Pony mention such a dip? Surely he knew I would question him about it. And be not-very-happy with the submersion. 
The edge of the tub is at least six inches wide. Maybe eight. It's not uncomfortable to perch my ample rumpus upon the edge. It's not like a standard bathtub. The big triangle tub has an AMPLE ledge where you might place a phone.

My phone is a slippery devil. It's got that glass-back thing going on. I didn't choose it. That's the phone they had when I needed to get one to replace my dead iPhone. Which also had a glass back. They're escape artists, those glass-back phones. Hard to stop. Like an otter sliding down the muddy bank into the water. Like a bobsled nearing the end of the run. Like a greased pig escaping the grasp of rowdy children at a county fair.

MY phone gets away from me in T-Hoe if I don't make sure it's all the way down within the sunken edges on top of the console. It has slid off the wooden TV tray next to my OPC (Old People Chair) that I use as a table to hold the remote. Forget about laying anything on top of my phone. Like a mini Snickers bar. Or a note card with a shopping list. They're over the edge faster than a lemming in a hurry to prove itself unfit to survive. So I could definitely draw the conclusion that The Pony's phone slid itself off the edge of the tub and into the bath. Except...


It's not slippery. It's grippery!

Is it wrong of me to hold out hope that The Pony is butter-fingered, and a liar?