Squeaky clean

I must preface what I am about to say with this: I maintain good personal hygiene — really, I do!

But I can’t stand taking showers. Sometimes, I’ll skip a day and go for the good old college bath.

And weekends? If I’m being a homebody, then I’ll wait until Sunday night to hop in for some tub time.

I used to love showers. The longer and hotter the better. Skin-scalding level? Take it up one more notch, and that’s close to how I like it.

I love the ritual of showers — the shampoo bubbles, the socially mandated Ferris Bueller impersonation, the way my hair squeaks when I rinse out the suds, the creamy conditioner, the yummy-smelling body wash, the scrubby loofah, the super-hot blast followed by a shock of cold.

But nowadays, half my body hates those things. (Thanks, MS!) The steady stream of hot water has become like tiny needles on my back and legs, forcing body parts to cramp up, recoiling from the pain.

So I turn knobs. A little less Red, and more Blue. Too cold. Icy needles now pelting me.

A little more Red. Lukewarm. Tepid. Yawn.

Nothing invigorating about a lukewarm shower.

But, I suppose, it does get me clean.