How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Shower

(01/15/16)

I made friends with the shower today. Can I get a hell, yeah?

I passed judgement on it for two reasons. First, the location: the ugly, mottled, discolored stall squats to the left of the front door between the door to the Prior's room and the ladder leading up to my loft. The only thing preventing everyone in the kitchen from seeing you get in or out is a curtain you pull across the hallway. Even then, there is still the possibility of the Prior, Master K, emerging from his quarters at an unexpected moment and surprising you in your full naked glory.

The other challenge is the stall itself. It is tiny, lacks a shower head, and the tap is installed up five feet instead of the usual height. If you are short enough, you can duck under the faucet and wash that way. Otherwise, you use a hand-sprayer. Selecting this second option means washing yourself one-handed while directing the sprayer with the other. You have to twist and contort  in the tiny space, while always  being mindful of where you're pointing the sprayer lest you send a jet of water blasting out of the cubicle into the temple.

Today something miraculous happened.

I was wringing out dirty rags when I noticed a spot on the shower. When I wiped it, not only did the spot come off, but so did some of the shower's discoloration.

Could it be? Was it possible this shower is not a stained, too-small, faucet-in-the-wrong-place irritation chamber at all? Could it be just really, really dirty?

Reverend V fortified me with cleaning supplies and I went to work.

It felt good. The shower was transformed, gradually revealing itself to be a shade of off-white instead of its previous color of blighted hellscape. More importantly, the process of caring for the stall changed my relationship to it. I sounds stupid, but I'm going to say it anyway: That shower and me, we had a moment, you know?

This is why I came here.