It’s occurred to me that I have no idea what the hell I’m doing in the bathroom.
It’s been so long since my parents taught me the basic etiquette of the bathroom. Since then, so many new processes and necessities have come into being—pubic hair, acne, various odors—without any guidance whatsoever on how to appropriately deal with them.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t need any assistance, per se. I can get by. I know where everything is supposed to go, for the most part. Pee goes in the toilet, spit goes in the sink. It’s more so the intricacies of bathroom life that I, although may perform successfully, don’t know if I’m doing quite right.
For example, how do I wipe my butt? I know, it’s a bit awkward to talk about. But, who’s to know what the right way is? I’m sure I was taught the proper way when my brain was the size of an egg. But now, I feel like I might be doing it wrong. Wiping back and forth seems unsanitary. But I don’t want to waste excess paper. What’s more important: the comfort of my butt or the ecosystem? What is the ecosystem? I live in New York. I think it’s safe to say that this city has evolved past the classification of an ecosystem. There’s nothing eco about it.
I have three different types of toothpaste. One for whitening, one for health, one specifically for enamel. My teeth are sensitive, probably because I smoke. But that also makes them yellow and unhealthy and wears down the enamel. Thus, all three products seem important. I’m sure they all intersect, for the most part. Most likely, it’s just the same product in three different colored tubes. Toothpaste is toothpaste, right?
Choosing which toothpaste to use is an agonizing part of my daily routine. My teeth are looking pretty yellow this morning, I might think on a given occasion. I should probably use whitening. But maybe they’re yellow because the enamel wore down from grinding my teeth in my sleep? My gums feel swollen. Why don’t I have a toothpaste for that? Oh hell, I’m sure the health toothpaste will take care of everything. But maybe I should use a second coat of whitening, because brushing teeth is essentially like painting a bedroom wall.
When I step in the shower, lint accumulates around my feet. Is this normal? I think it’s mainly from remnants of my socks between my toes. But that just doesn’t seem natural. How come stuff like that isn’t in movies? You never see an actress taking a shower with little black clumps between her toes or falling from her butt cheeks, which is another area I suspect the lint may come from. Eventually it just flushes down the drain and I forget about it.
Still, I find myself blankly standing beneath the stream of water, wondering what to do next. I take cold showers, mainly. Is that weird? Hot showers feel like sweating profusely on a hot day, the perspiration constantly pouring down my scalp. I enjoy cold showers. But the longer I stand complacently beneath the downpour, the more I feel guilty about wasting water. Every second I’m standing there could fill up a jug of water for someone who is dying of thirst. How the hell am I supposed to enjoy myself knowing that? Plus, my fingers get all pruney after a while.
I go from top to bottom. Wash my hair, then my face and my body last. The logic is, that if I washed my face and then washed my hair, it would overrule the face wash because the shampoo runs down my face and body. Again, no one taught me this. I can’t remember when I started using a wash specifically for facial cleansing; but, when I did, at some point along the line, I must have decided that it was of the utmost importance for my face to remain unperverted by other products after its application.
That’s my real problem, the order of things. The can of hair gel says to apply to dry hair only. But if I wait too long, my hair poofs up, as if rubbed by a balloon. How the hell am I supposed to know the incredibly complicated, time-sensitive list of steps that lead to a successful bathroom experience? The bathroom is supposed to be a sanctuary. In fact, it’s the only place of refuge in my tiny, shared apartment, not to mention the whole city. Yet, rather than refuge, it seems that all I find is a new, convoluted set of responsibilities with even less guidance than the more public realms of my life. When all is said and done, I am able to step out the door in the morning and blend in with regular human beings. In the back of my mind, I just know that lint is accumulating in the crevices of my body, waiting for my morning shower.