It typically passes along with the many other transitory mental moments that pop and disappear in the gray dribble between sub consciousness and functional thought. Yesterday it stayed with me though – and it begged contemplation.
I considered the fact that being alone, I am commonly and deeply imbedded in my thoughts when I shower. I wondered if, in some way, I feared just how deeply I could descend - perhaps passing over some ill-defined verge where the everyday would be irretrievable - where it would affect me corporeally and I would dissipate with the steam; “They would know I was in the shower when I disappeared – and that would explain everything. “ I thought.
When I inventoried my thoughts I realized that when I’m in the shower I am not moving intently from notion to notion or employing my time alone in serious contemplation - but rather, I move randomly. One inane thought prompted from the previous and so often just reiterations. The shampoo. The razor. The washcloth flung over the showerhead’s pipe. Perhaps I am afraid I could easily get lost in those thoughts – I would slide away into the familiar and blend into the even grid of the shower stall tiles.
I moved on and opened the bathroom door and chilled dry bedroom air swept in. And then I remembered.
My father was a plumber; I say ‘pipefitter’ to sound more impressive and so does he. Despite – or maybe because of - the complex array of valves and holding tanks, by-passes and heat-traps, he added to the plumbing in the home where I grew up, the system seemed to prioritize a flow of water in manners intent on supplying unpredictable discomfort to everyone involved. Taking a shower with house full of people moving about their day was a risky endeavor. The sudden shifts in pressure and flow seemed to have little connect to the abrupt change in temperature. You could be scalded by a dribble of water, then chilled by the same, assaulted with a blast of high pressure water only to be thrown through a moment of warm comfort to a blast of flesh-searing steam. That is, unless you told some one you were taking a shower. We all knew what it was like so we respected each other’s shower time – though only to a limited extent. We had about 15 minutes before domestic activities involving water would recommence and set off the torturous shifts. If they happened sooner than that, you would hear my Dad yell, “Yeeeeooooww!” from the basement shower or my sister scream down from upstairs, “Could some one turn off the dishwasher!”
