I’ve never been big on personal hygiene. In high school, my friends and I would make a contest of who could wear their clothes the longest. My dad once told me my hair smelled bad. For a time in my mid-20s, I stopped shaving my armpits for no good reason whatsoever, and my mother was secretly terrified that I’d get married that way. I’m not exactly a girl’s girl, I guess, is what I’m saying, if your image of a girl is something clean-scrubbed and pink, with banana curls.
When I was depressed, it was often the prospect of showering that kept me from leaving my bed. The simple task of putting soap to water was enough to paralyze me, an insurmountable obstacle on my path to normalcy. So I kind of stopped, for awhile. Just so I’d be able to go about my day. And although I’m not depressed now, I’ve recently found myself running up against the same wall. Showering sucks. I hate it. So I haven’t been doing it.
Mind you, it’s not like I’m some hairy goliath running around Boston here – I’m a pretty petite lady, and I think I powder and perfume enough to cover my occasional lapse. But today is kind of worse than usual. Today is kind of… euch.
I thought I’d figured it out, see? I thought if I showered in the evenings, it would be like I was taking BACK the shower. Like, showering in the morning is something you “have” to do. Showering at night is a personal choice. So that became my plan: to shower at night. It’s a totally workable plan, until you consider the fact that I’ve got a pretty active social life and haven’t gotten home before midnight since Sunday.
Guess who’s not showering at midnight? This girl.
Guess who’s still not showering in the morning? The very same.
So yeah. Euch. I think I’ll wash my hair when I get home, before my dad weighs in on the situation.