Cold Showers
I am jolted awake in a pool of sweat by the blaring trumpets in the beginning of Seth MacFarlane’s Pennies From Heaven. I look at the time. 5:00 am.
I turn off the alarm and crawl out of bed. I tiptoe across the room, the wooden floorboards protesting against my weight, and get my clothes from my bag. The sound of the waves are deafening, though it doesn’t seem to wake the others in the room. The pathetic ceiling fans make a whirring sound, as if to say, hey, look, we’re trying our best. I get out of the cabin and stumble across the jetty, guided only by the faint light in the distant dining hall. The sun hasn’t risen yet, and neither has anyone else in the Telunas Resort.
I step into the showering area, grope around for the light switch, and lock the door. After taking out my contacts and brushing my teeth, I peel my sweaty clothes off and step into the shower, taking a deep breath. I start my day off by battling demons, letting them indulge in my worst fears. It is the most dreadful yet rewarding part, when their icy touch engulfs me as I cling onto dear life. I start a mental countdown. Three… two… one… Before I can stop myself, I crank the handle.
I had always loved hot showers. I remember when I was little, I would purposely put the shower on its maximum heat setting. Then, I would step inside, trying to bask in the scalding water, coming out as red as a lobster. While I was drying off, I would draw on the foggy mirror and write my name. The best part was that the drawings could only be revealed the next time the mirror got foggy.
Even as I grew up, I always loved washing myself in hot water, especially when I moved to Vancouver. Let me tell you, there’s no better sensation than relaxing in a warm bath, hot cocoa in hand, as it snowed furiously outside. It felt medicinal, how the water seemed to wash away all the impurities, breathing new life into me. I wasn’t old, but after a long, hot shower, I felt like I had stepped out of the Fountain of Youth. In the bathtub, I was a fetus in a womb, a cocoon in a bubble of warmth, where I had no care about what was going on in the outside world and was able to purely enjoy my existence.
It is then no surprise that I hated cold showers. The idea of taking one was unbearable; the idea of taking one — Heaven forbid — willingly was inconceivable. When I was nine, I had the irrational fear that cold showers would make you sick afterwards and vowed to be a lifelong coldshowerphobic: I would much rather not take a shower at all than bathe in cold water, to the horror of my parents.
However, my mindset started to change once I was in high school. The initial reason why I started taking cold showers was purely utilitarian; I had the tendency to sweat profusely during the night, especially one week when my room air conditioner broke down. I always felt icky in the morning. Showers alleviated that, but it had to be cold since it took patience for the water to warm up in the mornings, and I am a man with little patience. Not taking a shower was out of question as well, and stepping into the boys’ locker room after practice can tell you why.
At first, I loathed the morning showers especially since I caught a cold one day after a particularly freezing shower. However, after a while, I got used to it and surprisingly found it enjoyable. The way it jolts me out of my grogginess the moment the water hits my skin is unpleasant but actually quite useful; it’s a rude yet highly effective way of waking up, and I find that it stimulates my brain and sharpens my focus throughout the day. It’s certainly better than a morning coffee.
For the past few years, I have been pretty consistently taking cold showers, though I enjoy a nice, toasty shower every once in a while. Of course, unlike all those online self-help gurus, I can’t guarantee success or wealth or status from taking cold showers in the morning; still, I find the act of taking a cold shower itself to be oddly philosophical. There’s nothing harder than turning the handle to the cold side while your brain is half-awake — it requires a surprising amount of willpower. However, eventually cranking it is a willingness to experience discomfort, a radical acknowledgement that your pain must be endured. At that point, it’s too late, and you must accept the cold water and your fate with open arms. Yes, the cold water is unpleasant, but that doesn’t mean you should just stand there, shivering, as it pours down — that’s defeat. You still have things to do, tasks to complete. The pain won’t stop for you, and your hair won’t lather itself. Even in hard times, you have to hold your head up high and reach for the shampoo. Eventually, you emerge, victorious, from the shower booth, your brain alive and the adrenaline pumping into your veins. Yes, cold showers are nasty, but the feeling of victory and self-worth in the end is what makes them so delightful.