For the benefit of readers who have not lived from late March to mid-November without a shower, a description of what I learned this year . . .
My re-immersion into the 21st century began with the return of two stainless steel mixing bowls from the bathroom to the kitchen. The smaller of the two had been used since April to dip water from a large pot of water (heated on the stove and carried to the room appropriate for bathing) and poured into the larger bowl where cold tap water was added. The process added volume to the water used and brought the temperature of the almost boiling portion to “optimum warm.”
When Dick Rutan and Jeanna Yeager flew around the world without refuelling in 1986, they shared a cockpit equipped with a pilot’s seat, a little room for maneuvering bodies beside it and a long shelf extending to the rear behind the single seat. During the entire flight, when one was flying the Voyager the other was reclining on the shelf — not unlike the shelf behind the rear-seat passengers in your 1959 Buick Electra — and it was on that shelf that resting and personal hygene took place. In their book about the flight, the intrepid duo relate how Jeanna (no relation to Charles Yeager) paid more attention to the latter than Rutan. The latter admits that he kept his t-shirt on during most of the week-long flight and confined most of the cleaning to “the groinal area.”
Funny isn’t it, how some phrases stay with you?
My voyage through 7.5 months of sponge action was more thorough than Dick Rutan’s but not much, extending to the arm and body junction and occasionally the whole enchilada standing in the tub with extra agua carried in for the special occasions, about once every two weeks. Until the final month of my odyssey, my scalp received more attention than the rest of me put together. By that time, hygene-wise, I was near delerium, also known as the “oh screwdriver the whole frikking world” stage. No sweat-ee; no bathe-ee.
Let me tell you what the body does in 7.5 months as revealed during a long shower on a Wednesday morning. (There will be no naughty bits described here.) Dead skin accumulates on the body the way flakes accumulate on your sidewalk during a gentle snowfall. You don’t notice it until warm water penetrates the layer, and you find you can scratch the layer away as though it was icing on a cake, scraped off by your fingernails. I discovered this on my right arm at first: scratched most of it off leaving the undercoat red as a beet, but not painful at all. Then I discovered it on my lower legs, especially below my knees. Above the knees had received regular focused attention over the months. The negative outcome of casual sponging really became obvious around my feet. The accumulation came off not so much like dead skin cells, but like bark. I gave all this as much attention as I could during the rush to get to work on time, and I accomplished a lot.
A big benefit encountered in transit is that I don’t have to work so hard to lift my feet when I’m walking.
I REALLY need a good soak in the tub with the water about as hot as I can stand. Maybe tonight. For sure: soon.
Had I known what I would learn at the end of my little adventure, I would have found a way to check into a cheap hotel once a month, especially in the summer when I could have appreciated the air conditioning, and give periodic and thorough once-overs to my entire booooody. If you’re in the sponge mode, I recommend you consider it.
I am also resolved to watching my thermostat as never before, closing doors to rooms I’m not occupying, closing heat vents to rooms seldom occupied and without plumbing, and still using the afghan when I’m watching TV. And I’m sure I’ll be using the space heaters when the weather gets COLD cold. Bottom line: no more adventures in gasless living for me.
Live long . . . . and proper.
