I have really come to hate taking a shower.

Oh, don't get me wrong, I haven't gone completely feral and given up hygene; I still shower every day. But I just don't enjoy it anymore.

It used to be that, if anything, I enjoyed the daily ritual a little too much, standing under the height appropriate nozzle for twenty minutes at a time, letting the warmth run over me.The shower was my place to think, to relax, to escape. It was my personal waterfall of comfort. I would linger longer than necessary, putting off the final formality of washing my hair until the last moment possible, wrapped in a fluid cocoon of warm water.

But then I moved into the dorms. I've learned the true meanings of communalism and public nudity.

From what I understand, we have it good in the third floor Holiday wing of Tudor Hall, which scares me for those who live in the other wings. I'm afraid to touch the shower curtains for fear that toxic living mildew will suddenly snake up my arm and consume my flesh. I don't dare set my soap in the "soap dish", because I think that the germs would win the fight by sheer strength of numbers. Just thinking of stepping into the tile barefooted would probably give me a staph infection (in fact, I know of at least two cases of it already). It's surprising that none of the students from iconographic churches have discovered images of the Virgin or some saint growing in the mold. I know of several guys who actually will leave the building to use the shower facilities of the nearby health-plex instead of facing the horrors here.

Then, of course, comes the issue of the water itself. Once the nozzle is turned, you don't have to worry about adjusting it, because it adjusts itself frequently, and never into the bearable ranges. So cold that you will literally turn blue or so hot that you could theoretically cook lobster (though I would question the sanity of anyone who would dare cook in those showers), there is no middle ground. If you don't like what you're feeling, however, you just have to jar the handle ever-so-slightly (not enough to actually turn it, mind you), and it will readjust accordingly, meaning that you're going to have to jar it again within the next fifteen seconds.

Then, if you ever find a comfortable temperature, which you will not, you have to contend with the sporadic nature of the nozzles. The water flow will arbitrarily short out, pausing for a moment before squirting full force at your body. This would be bearable, except for the fact that, when it does this, the water temperature is readjusted from tepid-leaning-towards-warm to arctic-frigid. Commence the wild this-part-of-me-was-never-meant-to-be-cold-showered dancing and knob-adjusting antics.

The tongue-in-cheek inclusion of a Bible verse at the top of the page aside, the showers in Tudor Hall are like a worst case scenario manic patient-- scalding or cold enough to induce hypothermia. There is no middle ground for their moods. One may think that they've achieved it, but the heat just keeps rising-- or falling-- until it's insufferable.