One of my earliest memories is of me perching on the edge of the bathtub watching my dad shave. I say “watch,” but I was apparently auditioning for Alex Trebek’s job on “Jeopardy” because in my memory I’m peppering him with questions nonstop. 

I’ll take “How do they make shaving cream?” for $500, please.

He (dad, not Alex) would stand at the sink in our one full bathroom and patiently answer my questions while he tried to avoid knocking over the petrified bottle of Old Spice we gave him for Father’s Day.

I think we covered just about everything in those early-morning sessions. I’m pretty sure we discussed death (“Why aren’t my turtles moving?”) and astrophysics (“How much does the moon weigh?”) and life (“Why don’t I have any little brothers or sisters?”).

Some answers were more obvious than others.

To this day I don’t know if dad actually knew all the answers or he was just making things up until he could get his hands on a cup of coffee. But every so often one of my million questions (“Why do squids have three hearts?”) would be answered with this bon mot:

“So little girls will ask questions.”

Looking back, I stand in awe of his patience. There were seven people living in that house, and exactly one place where he could reasonably expect some privacy, and there was a 4-year-old in footed pajamas intruding on his one sad excuse for a sanctuary that he had to wake up at the crack of doom to even have a crack at.

Now that Dad, Interrupted and I have moved upstairs to accommodate the grandparents, Interrupted taking over the master suite, I’m now sharing another small bathroom with three hulking men.

And the little girl in me is asking one more, very ironic question:

“Why do I never feel alone in here?”

Duh: “So little columnists will ask questions.”

Even in the full flower of my youth I was never one to hog the john. “Pretty is as pretty does” was the mantra (spoken by my mother, apparently throwing in the towel on ever having the bathroom to herself), so primping has always been out. 

At this stage of my life, natural beauty eludes me; it takes a little more work to look this hot. It takes time to unpack the bags under my eyes each morning, and I’m doing all kinds of plucky, tweezy, menopausal-ly things that no one wants to see. Anyone who walks in while I’m trying to wedge myself into my bathing suit deserves what he gets, which is “scarred for life.” Please trust me on this one: no one wants to observe how this particular sausage is made, or encased.

But it never fails: no matter how early I rise; no matter how late I creep from my bed: close that bathroom door and within two minutes the doorknob is rattling.

So, my fellow Ahwatukeeans: if you’re up at the crack of doom and you want to know why we have pinky toes, you may as well stop on by. Everyone else wants to be in here. You can perch on the edge of tub and fire away.

You already know the answer, though: so little readers will ask questions.

• Ahwatukee Foothills resident Elizabeth Evans can be reached at elizabethann40@hotmail.com.

© E. Stocking Evans 2015