There’s something special about stepping back into one’s childhood shower. We all remember our old bedrooms and kitchens well—the centers of eating and sleeping functions—but not so our showers, though bathing is just as crucial. Why is this?
The shower is where you spent a portion of every day in intimate seclusion, possibly singing or deep in thought. And naked. It was where you tallied the damages of puberty. And if you had multiple siblings, it was one of the few places to be alone.
Mine is a blue tiled rectangle with a feeble showerhead. There’s an alcove stuffed with old shampoo bottles, many of which contain < ounce liquid. A loofah rots nearby.
Shower memories include: functional showers (2 mins) and hangover showers (30 mins); a time when Clairol Herbal Essences was the color of dishsoap and came in a bottle with a drawing of a wood nymph on it; coating my hair in olive oil to make it fashionably greasy circa 1997; tasting a bath bead experimentally.
J'irai m'acheter des pellicules le jour où j'aurai été payé par la secrétaire, parce que même en comptant sur soi, on dépend des autres. D'incapables, de trouducs à interner, d'ectoplasmes sacs à foutre.
I CAN'T STAY CALM MADAME