It's 11 O'clock. Do You Know Where Your Face Wash is?

The showers in the gym are public. They are partitioned into sets of two, side-by-side, running down a white linoleum hallway. They resemble cells in a cloister. During the day these get a lot of action, as in you're showering next to one guy and across from another guy. And the past few times I've walked out of these showers, I've been forced to leave a little part of me behind.

It pains me to write about these experiences, considering the preciousness and sanctity of what I've lost, the sheer embarrassment was almost enough to silence my voice. But no, I just can't let this dark secret eat away at me anymore.

Those of you who have no stomach for grotesque descriptions will have no problem reading further.

I'm a face wash dropper. I forget face wash.

Just slips my mind. And really, you can't blame me. Here I am drying out, pushing my wet feet through my underwear, navigating through the maze of steaming bodies, all as quickly as I can manage without looking to the left or right. It's hard, but I know it's no excuse. I'm despicable.

And the worst part is, it's happened more than once. This past incident will make three total. Three bright-eyed little face washes, literally left out there to dry. Sometimes at night I can still hear their voices. I can still see their faces, full of innocence and promises of being oil-free.

I can only hope that a gentle, clean-faced stranger will have picked them up and given them a good home. I shudder to imagine them in the hands of some abusive, overly-compulsive face-washer, squeezing the last bits of cream cleanser from their twisted bottles.

Please, if you see a stray bottle of face wash, tell them I'm sorry. And don't tell them about the shiny new bottle of Deep Clean with Sea Salt Rub that I bought today.