When I was 14, I was confronted with disgusted looks from my peers
on a school holiday camp, who had taken my unwillingness to wear
thongs in the shower as some kind of personal affront. Apparently,
when sharing a washroom with five other teen girls, you’re supposed
to keep the soles of your feet off the communal surfaces at all times.
No one had ever told me – perhaps my parents were irresponsible,
or perhaps they’d just never had to deal with tinea.
Ever since that shameful moment, I’ve been acutely aware of
my surroundings in all showers besides my own. Searching for
mould spores, lurking bacteria, or a common stray pube, I spend
approximately three-quarters of my bathing time inspecting the
tiles for evidence of their owner’s uncleanliness, in what should
ultimately be the cleanest of spaces.
Showers exist to take our skin from mucky to unsoiled. They also
exist for somewhere to sit while hungover; to sing pop songs poorly;
and to spend a full 10 minutes staring at the floor while having those
water-soaked moments of clarity and inspiration that seem only
to occur in the confines of tiled walls. But why do I never feel clean
unless I shower in my very own bathroom?
I’ve stayed at oodles of friends’ houses, Airbnbs, hotels, motels, Holiday
Inns, but none have ever been up to the task of refreshing me the way
a shower at home can. Weird showerheads; impossible-to-navigate
temperature controls; puzzling items in the shower caddy – whetherthey’re clean as a whistle; large enough to conduct a water ballet in; or
even come complete with tiny, fancy toiletries, no wash is ever the same.
Don’t get me wrong – I know filth, too. I’ve lived in sharehouses before.
I know the passive-aggressive chore-avoidance dance we all do when
living in shared accommodation. I cleaned the bathroom last time,
Deborah – it’s your turn to scrub the pink mould off the showerscreen.
Even so, the mould you grow yourself somehow seems less threatening
than the spores strangers have carefully nurtured.In the same way, the risks that public shower germs pose are
completely terrifying. As a fan of the local public pool, I’m able to
overlook the floating detritus of my fellow filthy swimmers while
I wheeze through a handful of laps in the slow lane, but the concept
of taking a shower under water-saving jets next to some screaming
toddlers is too much to bear. Peeling a stray Band-Aid from the
outdoor pool off my ankle doesn’t faze me, but squeaking through
a three-minute rinse in my thongs and bathers somehow leaves me
feeling grubbier than ever.Public pools don’t share my flagrant disregard for water restrictions,
either. They have water-saving systems that somehow spray less
out of their puny nozzles than the weakest sharehouse shower.
My local spurts what can only be described as tiny, high-pressure
needles of lukewarm water that sting your face and nipples, leaving
you traumatised and sore with your back to the wall, staring down
into the shared drain as you watch other people’s urine and hair pool
together in a stew of nightmares.I try to convince myself that water is the same everywhere; that
I mustn’t shower again. But instead, I take my sorry, sticky butt home
and step into one of those 10-minute steamy showers I know I shouldn’t
take. Belting out top 40 bangers, I can reach for the assortment of bath
products I’ve wasted so much of my precious money on – and it’s all
worth it. Rinsing overpriced body wash off my super-clean arse, I smile
into the gentle, perfectly heated shower stream; the smug smile of
someone who knows she’s stray pube and mystery mould-free. Ah –
there really is no shower like a home shower.it all comes
out in the wash
THERE’S NO SHOWER LIKE
YOUR HOME SHOWER, SAYS
REBECCA VARCOE.
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