One of the trials that makes up my day at present is one that I'm sure many of us have to endure. It is such a common misery, that I'm sure we could all benefit from a little recognition:
Getting out of the shower into a cold room.
I don't know about you, but I like my showers hot. Real hot. Like a curry. I like it when the air is so thick with steam that I can visualize the microscopic mildew that is bound to grow in unreachable corners, succored on my thermal excesses. A small price to pay for red skin, relaxed muscles, open pores, and decadent deep breaths. It's where I do my best thinking, my deepest relaxation, and my best singing. But, eventually, I have to leave.
The decision to turn off the shower water is similar to the decision involved in getting out of bed. There's always the possibility of staying just a little bit longer. Even while I weigh the relative benefits of staying or leaving, I'm still in the shower/bed, and that's a good thing. Deliberation is simply my means of procrastination. And usually (this might be unique to me), I start daydreaming while deliberating. I mean, let's face it, if I am deliberating I am fully aware that I should be exiting the bed/shower, and therefore the deliberation consists of a cyclical argument where I don't really "say" anything convincing. I repeat myself over and over again. It is during this intentionally indecisive mantra that I start daydreaming-- and god only knows the thoughts that come into my head. But the point is that while daydreaming, I am still in bed/shower. It's a vicious cycle of inertia-- one that I enjoy immensely.
Eventually, I turn off the shower (not after a last moment's hesitation at the steel knobs). I wipe the excess water from my body (a trick I learned when I was about three years old from my father) and prepare myself to exit the Relaxation Chamber. Parting the waxy curtain, I'm shocked into a standing fetal position by the flowing air currents that apparently only manifest themselves when I emerge from showers. Fuck, I hate my life. Everything hurts. I must purge my body of every last molecule of epidermal hydration. It's my only hope in the struggle against goose bumps. But goddammit, wouldn't you know, that even the simple act of bringing the hanging towel closer to my body generates typhoonic wind currents that give the last 1-2 left hook before I can finally wrap myself in cotton's warm embrace-- well, at least the top half of my body. My two bit and tackle still have to suffer.
Stepping out of the shower is always a chore, thanks to the genius who invented "bathroom tiles". Sure, the little rug helps, but it's usually wet by this point. But wet bathroom rugs are the least of my worries. I still have to open the door to the freezing hallway. It's a bit like a fireman opening the door to enter a fire-- except the exact opposite. They have gear and respirators and enter burning hallways. I'm naked and dreading the run through the Hallway Gauntlet into my room. After some (unnecessary) deliberation, I open the door-- and I'm hit with a sonic boom of cold. Fuck. Everything hurts.