While I was not the least bit curious as to why one of the trucks unloaded a gigantic backhoe and why that backhoe was digging up the asphalt in front of my house at the crack of dawn, my husband was. While I washed my hair, he went outside to talk with the group of men who were standing on my neighbor's front lawn.
The foreman informed my husband that a water main had burst and that one of the men in attendance was there to fix it. The other 9 were there to supervise.
"Is our water o.k. to use?" asked my husband.
The foreman quickly assured him that it was. After thinking about it for a few minutes, however, the foreman changed his mind.
"Well, I wouldn't shower in it or anything," he told my husband.
My husband broke the bad news as I was rinsing out the shampoo. After I was dressed, he congratulated me for not freaking out that I took a shower in dirty water. I didn't tell my husband this, but frankly, I was saddened by the news, as it offered a reasonable, logical, and totally sane explanation for the brackish film that coated my skin. I was left in ignorance just long enough to convince myself that my shower head was rewarding me for good behavior and was dispensing a spray-on tan.