Therapeutic Showering Dries Up With Drought

Singing in the shower sure ain’t what it used to be.

Just a few months ago it was routine to warble out medleys of old-time favorites while taking a leisurely shower. Like everybody else, I’ve learned the first few lines of an impressive number of songs in my time, and I can la-de-da to the end with the best of them. The accompaniment of the steady flow of water from the shower head, like the brushing cymbals of a background drummer, can take slightly off-key notes, bounce them off the shiny tile and wash them down the drain. No one is the wiser.

The shower used to be a place to re-groom and regroup. While people cleaned their pores, washed their locks, flossed their teeth and shaved, they could sing, solve their problems, plan their day, or even have a therapeutic cry.

I can remember times when a kind of family bonding took place in the shower. When one of my sons was a youngster, he was initiated to his first knock-down, drag-’em-out fight with two neighbor boys. When he limped through the door, sweaty, smeared with dirt and crying, his dad said: “Come on, son. Let’s take a shower.”

I thought it was a strange thing to do under the circumstances. (My instinct was to kiss away the tears.) But his dad had a “guy talk” in mind, and that day the shower washed away the hurt, as well as the dirt. The effects of the camaraderie and understanding between father and son lasted far longer than the effects of the soap. And, at that time, there was no worry about wasting water.

Most women, and maybe even a few men, know that the shower is a logical place to have a good cry. The stall walls wrap around like womblike security, providing privacy and protection from outside stresses. A 20-minute shower was often all the therapy a person needed before facing the world again. It was a good place to work out solutions to problems, undisturbed, or to plan a course of action.

In the name of water conservation and civic duty, the nature of my shower has changed. We invested in a water-saving gadget to attach to the shower head. I can adjust the temperature, wet down and then, like other conscientious citizens, turn the valve to stop the water. That’s the time to soap up and chill out. Some call it a Navy shower. I call it an “unshower.” After soaping up, the valve is opened for the rinse cycle . . . and the shower is over before I have a chance to sing one verse of “Anchors Aweigh.” Like brushing my teeth, the shower has become a matter of human maintenance. The thrill, as well as the therapy is gone.

If there’s any singing to be done, it doesn’t matter if I don’t know the words, because I don’t have time to finish a verse anyhow. It’s also difficult to sing through chattering teeth!

And I haven’t had a good, healthy cry since the water shortage became serious business, although that in itself might be something to cry about.