I used to take showers to be clean, so as not to offend the sensibilities of my fellow subway and elevator riders. I washed my hair so it wouldn’t be greasy for tomorrow’s meeting. It was for other people.

That isn’t why I shower anymore. A shower for cleanliness is a novelty, to wash away the sweat of a virtual yoga class, taking out the trash, or bringing up a delivery of groceries. I never bounded effortlessly up four flights of stairs, and they have only gotten harder now that I don’t scale them every day. 

I shower to spend time somewhere that isn’t 

my bedroom, 

the living room, 

or the kitchen. 

Journeying ever deeper into my apartment, into a room without windows, or cats, or roommates. Just Jeff Goldblum’s oversized face on the shower curtain and a vintage ad for Kotex hanging on the wall. “Very personally yours.” A scenic, slightly claustrophobic detour. A place where work can’t expect me to respond, even now.

I shower to wash off the pink clay mask that shrinks pores and purports to leave my face smooth and glowing. I’ll put my hair in a bun every morning all week and ignore it until my scalp begins to ache, then wash in some purple Manic Panic. The basics of hygiene don’t muster motivation in me unless they are turned into a colorful ritual of escape.

It’s the only time of day that I listen to music. Music used to be the soundtrack of the sidewalk, the subway. Perpetually indoors, it’s too distracting to work to, but not distracting enough to keep my anxiety at bay while doing anything else. The algorithm is already adapting my daily mixes to match my increased need for the nostalgic pop of my high school days: Britney Spears, No Doubt, Natalie Imbruglia. I rush to skip past any song that might turn my mood contemplative, then sulking. This will really screw up my Spotify year in review.

I shower when the air conditioner has betrayed me with promises it could never live up to, when I’ve spent the day sitting in front of the fan with a damp tea towel draped on my shoulders and a cold bottle of water held against my wrists to chill the flowing blood. I pretend it is a waterfall in a rainforest, or even a sudden storm I’ve been caught in on my way home. I gasp as the cold water pulls out the heat that has settled into my skin all day. I can feel some of my frustration evaporate with it.

Sometimes I shower because I want to scream and cry and explode. Because Twitter has broken more bad news and I can’t just go to bed and I can’t keep scrolling. It’s asking too much of the eucalyptus spearmint body wash to cleanse me of this. No matter what the flowery print on the bottle promises, some stress cannot be relieved via loofah.

Joanna Bettelheim is currently living in New York City with her calico cat and most loyal reader, Moonpie. Her work has previously appeared in Under the Gum Tree, Exposition Review's Flash 405, Breadcrumbs Magazine, no. 2 magazine, and Mom Egg Review. She can be found on Twitter and Instagram @thewelllostmind.