Showers

I took something resembling a shower today. It fulfilled all the supposed functions of a shower—my body and hair are clean and smell like a variety of synthesized compounds designed to mimic flowers in nature. But I’ve come to realize that a shower isn’t really defined by its practical function. It’s a cultural ritual, something we have a host of other associations with. Showers mean steam, a mirror fogged up, a bathroom smelling like soap and shampoo. They mean getting warm after a cold, rainy day. They wake you up at the beginning of a long day of school, they rinse off the sweat of competition, they cool you off on summer evenings.

Here, in the outdoors, a shower has none of these associations. I can’t relax and think about how to spend my free evening. I can’t plan an essay while slowly rubbing soap across my skin. I can’t breathe in the faux-floral mist when I get out. Stripped down to its bare essentials, bathing is an unglamorous process. I strip. I realize how dirty I am. I dump cold water over my head, praying it doesn’t start raining again. I lather up, rub shampoo in my hair. I wish the shower nozzle worked properly, but it doesn’t, so I dump freezing water over my head a second time. I shake off, towel dry and put on clean underwear and a shirt I’ve only worn for two days instead of six.

I find myself town between pragmatism and savoring the moment. If everyone took showers like we do, the world would need much less water. But I love the cultural values and experiences that go along with taking a long, warm shower inside. I’d never really thought to separate the two experiences in my head, but they are fundamentally different. I don’t have any profound lessons to draw from this. Just something I realized when I was naked and shivering in the middle of a forest. Though I think no matter how you do it, the end result—clean hair—is fantastic.