I went to sleep last evening dirty with dust and dried sweat. I woke up knowing it was either shower or make myself a cardboard sign and sit on a corner, and let me tell you, I gave some serious thought to the cardboard sign idea.

However, in the end, I did gather up my bathrobe and a towel for my hair and headed into the shower. It always seems like a chore – actually getting under the stream of water. I mean, once you’ve made that leap of faith, there’s no going back. You are wet.

Then you have to get your hair lathered up with a shampoo that doesn’t leave much residue. It can be tricky – too much shampoo and you are washing suds out of your hair for what seems like an eternity. This is unsettling because you have been trained since earliest childhood to wash and rinse your hair TWICE.

Then there is the body scrub with a good shower gel, one that leaves you feeling clean, but not smelling like little old lady lavender. By this time you can see the light at the end of the tunnel, but if you have forgotten to brush your teeth first, you become very aware of a big noxious area infiltrating your new clean space. I’m going to skip going into that aspect right now because it always makes me think of a cartoon invisible man walking around with only his oral cavity visible. Yes, I realize that sounds ridiculous and I probably should not have confessed to it, but after all, this is a bit of a coming clean article. (GROAN)

Then comes the part where you slide the door open, step out and reach for your bathrobe, hoping that you have not neglected to check that the sleeves are not inside out. Time for the towel to be twisted around the head like a turban and off you go to get dressed.

Of course, you feel nice and clean and shake your head at your reluctance to start a procedure with such a good outcome – and all along, you know it’s going to be just the same next time.

So, as has happened hundreds of times before, I now sit here clean and it occurs to me that I don’t want to do anything to counteract the effect. No shoveling the ashes out of the fireplace, no sticking my head into closets to pull stuff out, no going outside and vacuuming the car, no clipping the hedge and so forth. Gosh, darn, that’s just depressing. (This would be the place where I stifle a snicker.)

If anyone wants to know why I frittered the day away, it’s because I showered. That seems like a reasonable answer, as long as it is presented correctly.