Hygiene
It occurred to me recently that everything I know about personal hygiene I learned in the early 1970’s. For well over three decades now, I’ve been doing the same things the same way. Wet. Lather. Rinse.
What concerns me is not my hygiene per se. I feel clean. I smell alright. To the best of my knowledge, I’m doing an acceptable job. What concerns me is that I may not be applying cutting-edge techniques. And that bugs me. I own a plasma television, a BlackBerry and a car with a high-efficiency / ultra-low emission engine—all of which have thirty plus years worth of research and development behind them. And here I am, bathing the same way I did in the 70’s.
As far as instruction went, my parents were simple—yet clean—people. They couldn’t afford to hire tutors or buy instructional manuals. They did the best they could under the circumstances. They’d load the bathtub with two or three of us at a time—there are photos to prove this but I’d prefer they not be shared here… or anywhere—roll up their sleeves, grab a bar of soap and start scrubbing. It wasn't exactly structured learning. There was no “Place the soap in your right hand and move it in a circular motion over your chest until lather forms. Continue this process for 5 to 7 seconds, then…” The learning was much more holistic—gleaned from several years of simply paying attention.
This reminds me, as a kid, my parent’s biggest bathroom safety concern wasn’t Dad’s razor. It wasn’t pills in the medicine cabinet. It wasn’t the toilet seat falling on my head (don’t ask). It was slipping in the bathtub. I could retire today if I had $1,000 (compounded semi-annually at 8.375% for 30 years) for each time I heard my parents tell one of us not to slip in the tub. Don’t misinterpret. It’s not that I don’t appreciate their concern. It’s just that—who were all these kids slipping in the bathtub that it deserved more parental attention in the 1970’s than seatbelts or bicycle helmets? A much greater concern should have been the under-water-breath-holding competitions that took place on those rare occasions Mom entrusted me with the welfare of her progeny while she left the bathroom for a moment. The winner of these contests was invariably the youngest brother in the tub—due in no small part to the ample “assistance” he was given to stay under those extra few seconds.
By the time I was ten—or my parents bought a bathtub safety mat, I forget which came first—I was bathing on my own. The training wheels were off. I was wetting, lathering and rinsing with the pride of a young man on his way to adulthood.
Beginning in my early teens, showers began to take a little longer. My body was changing and, to keep it adequately clean, some parts required a little more attention. A lot more attention if the door was locked. Throughout that period of discovery—which I’m sure will end soon—my technique remained essentially the same. Wet. Lather. Rinse.
Despite having solid technique, I wasn’t what you’d call an efficient bather. In fact, I don’t remember a single shower throughout my teenage years that wasn’t interrupted by a knock on the bathroom door and a voice yelling “Leave some hot water for the rest of us.” It got to the point that I assumed that’s how you knew it was time to finish things up. No knock—keep on scrubbing.
Despite the fact that my technique hasn’t changed in thirty years, I can say confidently that my speed has more than doubled. Today, if I step into the shower at the intro, I can be clean and dry by the start of the second chorus of Meat Loaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Lights. I was unable to make that claim as a teenager.
I'm not sure how to get to the bottom of this. Perhaps I should make it a point to pay more attention to what’s going on in the showers at the health club. Check out the techniques of other adults. Ask questions. Take notes. I’m almost certain guys won’t have a problem with it. Or at very least they’ll have less problem with it than the women did last week. Which reminds me—Note to Self: Find new health club.
What concerns me is not my hygiene per se. I feel clean. I smell alright. To the best of my knowledge, I’m doing an acceptable job. What concerns me is that I may not be applying cutting-edge techniques. And that bugs me. I own a plasma television, a BlackBerry and a car with a high-efficiency / ultra-low emission engine—all of which have thirty plus years worth of research and development behind them. And here I am, bathing the same way I did in the 70’s.
As far as instruction went, my parents were simple—yet clean—people. They couldn’t afford to hire tutors or buy instructional manuals. They did the best they could under the circumstances. They’d load the bathtub with two or three of us at a time—there are photos to prove this but I’d prefer they not be shared here… or anywhere—roll up their sleeves, grab a bar of soap and start scrubbing. It wasn't exactly structured learning. There was no “Place the soap in your right hand and move it in a circular motion over your chest until lather forms. Continue this process for 5 to 7 seconds, then…” The learning was much more holistic—gleaned from several years of simply paying attention.
This reminds me, as a kid, my parent’s biggest bathroom safety concern wasn’t Dad’s razor. It wasn’t pills in the medicine cabinet. It wasn’t the toilet seat falling on my head (don’t ask). It was slipping in the bathtub. I could retire today if I had $1,000 (compounded semi-annually at 8.375% for 30 years) for each time I heard my parents tell one of us not to slip in the tub. Don’t misinterpret. It’s not that I don’t appreciate their concern. It’s just that—who were all these kids slipping in the bathtub that it deserved more parental attention in the 1970’s than seatbelts or bicycle helmets? A much greater concern should have been the under-water-breath-holding competitions that took place on those rare occasions Mom entrusted me with the welfare of her progeny while she left the bathroom for a moment. The winner of these contests was invariably the youngest brother in the tub—due in no small part to the ample “assistance” he was given to stay under those extra few seconds.
By the time I was ten—or my parents bought a bathtub safety mat, I forget which came first—I was bathing on my own. The training wheels were off. I was wetting, lathering and rinsing with the pride of a young man on his way to adulthood.
Beginning in my early teens, showers began to take a little longer. My body was changing and, to keep it adequately clean, some parts required a little more attention. A lot more attention if the door was locked. Throughout that period of discovery—which I’m sure will end soon—my technique remained essentially the same. Wet. Lather. Rinse.
Despite having solid technique, I wasn’t what you’d call an efficient bather. In fact, I don’t remember a single shower throughout my teenage years that wasn’t interrupted by a knock on the bathroom door and a voice yelling “Leave some hot water for the rest of us.” It got to the point that I assumed that’s how you knew it was time to finish things up. No knock—keep on scrubbing.
Despite the fact that my technique hasn’t changed in thirty years, I can say confidently that my speed has more than doubled. Today, if I step into the shower at the intro, I can be clean and dry by the start of the second chorus of Meat Loaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Lights. I was unable to make that claim as a teenager.
I'm not sure how to get to the bottom of this. Perhaps I should make it a point to pay more attention to what’s going on in the showers at the health club. Check out the techniques of other adults. Ask questions. Take notes. I’m almost certain guys won’t have a problem with it. Or at very least they’ll have less problem with it than the women did last week. Which reminds me—Note to Self: Find new health club.
posted by dp at
12:50 PM
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