A Hot Shower

For me anymore, a good hot shower is essential in attempting to melt away all the morning kinks and hitches that encumber my aging frame. Gone are the days of just jumping out of bed and hitting it- I took those days for granted. I take note of my shoulders gradually loosening under the pulsing shower spray and try to imagine how long I can keep my complaining joints and organs passably functional. Turning a lemon grass scented bar of soap in my hands, I rationalize my preoccupation must have something to do with being retired. I lather my head with a slow, circular motion, hoping to massage a few more neurons into firing.

As hot streams of water run over my shoulders, I wonder if my wife ever contemplates similar thoughts about aging and keeping physically functional or if she figures, it’ll all work out as part of some divine plan. I circle my head on my neck and listen to faint, grinding gristle sounds. While rinsing my hair, I concluded she probably didn’t. As I’ve gotten older, north of sixty, my eyesight is worse than it ever was. I’ve noticed certain parts of my body have either disappeared or morphed into some version of a five-year-old’s drawing of a human figure. My toes, for instance. Fortunately, I can still see them but unless I’m washing between my toes, I don’t really care if I have any or not. They could just be flesh-colored crayon scribblings for all I care.

The soap slips from my fumbling fingers and my stiff knees complain as I bend to reach for it. A steaming shower doesn’t reach all the joints as well as it used to. I turn as I rise and adjust the hot water knob hotter. More steam fills the shower and I pretend to become invisible while still trying to manage cognitive thought. In a moment I can’t feel the hotter water. Either my hide has gotten thicker, or my muscles are numb. I wash my face and let my hands linger over my eyes, allowing the warmth to sooth their morning dryness. When I pull my hands away, I make a point to look at them—really look at them like a baby does. Again, my eyesight hampers clarity, but I’m unperturbed. By now, I know everything my hands can do—like the cord of wood they chopped yesterday—and everything they’ve done, like playing trumpet for the last thirty-five years. Long gone is that intense, baby-like fascination for hands or an innocent fascination for the rest of the world.

I towel off and then shave. I’ve gone back to using a double edge safety razor like my dad used. In college, I used to shave with my grandfather’s pearl handled straight razor. The sound of stropping its keen edge before holding the naked blade to my face often drew a small, morbidly curious crowd of cocky young males just waiting for me to slash my throat. But I rarely did, and soon the novelty wore off for them. Shaving with a weighty, steel handled, double-edged razor as opposed to a plastic, multiple edged, discount store razor just makes more sense now. The old style razor is cheaper and gives just as close a shave, contrary to what advertising hype promises. The bathroom mirror is still a little steamed, but it doesn’t matter, shaving is more by feel than sight these days. I hear my wife grinding coffee beans in the kitchen. The smell of the fresh ground beans charges into the bathroom. Imaging my first sip of coffee makes me hurry, and I give myself a little nick. After swearing at my less than steady hands, I’m thankful I wasn’t using my grandfather’s wicked straight razor. Wiping the steam off the mirror I look into my own eyes and wonder if I’ll ever learn any patience in this life. My wife is already a master at patience—I know, because she hasn’t asked for a divorce in all our years together.

After dressing, I walk into the kitchen and just continue my thoughts aloud. My lovely wife frequently informs me I have a habit of suddenly talking aloud in the middle of some silent monologue with myself and expect her to know just what the heck my inner ramblings were about. In response, I usually give her a scrunched-up, quizzical expression. I can’t be as habitually schizophrenic as she says.

“I dunno Hon, you ever notice how a baby stares all wide-eyed and full of wonder into an adult’s eyes, like they’re seeing something simply spectacular for the very first time?” I reach for my coffee cup and pump the carafe, filling my mug with a strong brew. I stare a moment and watch the steam swirl off the rim. I continue without looking up at my wife.

“Babies look at everything that way, fascinated, hungry like carnivorous sponges. Heck, they’ll stare at their grubby little fingers for hours. Adults are so jaded and bored, they fool themselves they know everything. I think adults have lost that wide-eyed wonder because we don’t actually care if there’s anything new or special left in the world.”

Having not yet put my spectacles on, I fumble around the countertop for the cookie jar full of biscotti. My wife rewards me with this special treat every once in a while. It’s my favorite cookie and the only thing to dunk into a nice hot cup of joe. She doesn’t know it, but I’d re-roof our house for a batch of these suckers. From habit, I know she’s on the other side of the kitchen island turning her java into some kind of sweet concoction involving heavy cream and almond extract and god knows what-all else.

“You know, I think if we all took the time to notice things in the manner babies do, like it was the first time we ever saw them, we’d be a happier species. I think we’d be more patient and open-minded and less stressed out. What do you think, Sugar?”

Finishing my question, I take a bite of dunked biscotti and with cookie crumbs around my mouth; I look at my loving wife for the first time since entering the kitchen. She looks up from her barista concoction and stares at me wide-eyed, full of wonderment.

“You did it again Hon. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

For a while, we stare at each other over the rims of our coffee mugs, not saying a word. Eventually, the fresh aroma of coffee infiltrates our subconscious and I smile. She takes a sip from her cup and raises me a smile back. At that very moment, I’m ‘Texas-Hold’em-all-in.’ A hot shower, a strong cup of coffee and a loving smile from my wife, and all’s right with the world. Now all I have to do is remember where I left my glasses before lunchtime.

#short story #fiction #hot shower #retirement #aging #relationships #introspection #william calkins #roarke