Even though Momma once told me, “You can’t carry a tune in a bucket,” there’s one place I feel comfortable belting out a song – the shower. Since I prefer free-form singing – making up the lyrics I can’t remember (like “I’m singing in the rain, just singing in the rain/ I’m a crazy old fool/ Ain’t followin’ no rules”/ Just laughin’ and washin’ the blues away”) My shower is a judgement-free zone, and the hot water soothes my soul as well as eases my mind and sends my troubles circling down the drain with any funk my body has accumulated.
A year into the pandemic I confessed to my sister that I’d sometimes go two or three days without a shower or bath. Gayle was flabbergasted. “What’s wrong with you?!”
I think I didn’t like getting undressed when the weather was cold and I probably thought, “What’s the use of cleaning up?” I wasn’t going anywhere or getting cozy with anyone other than my dog or cat or husband, none of whom cared how I looked or smelled.
But I soon realized I was depriving myself of a calming, stimulating, and satisfying form of creativity. When I re-imagined the lyrics to “Singing in the Rain,” steamy water became my psychotherapist, and I always felt stronger after my shower. The singing was as necessary as the body-washing. I’d become Gene Kelly swinging on a lamp post and feeling in sync with the pouring rain.
I used to cry in the shower after my dad moved in with us. Living with an 87-year-old widower, who was part hypochondriac/part Pout-Pout Fish, was a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from! Caring for a 6’4” man in adult diapers who had more doctor appointments than a New Orleans native has Mardi Gras beads was not part of my retirement plan. My shower sobs helped me release my stress and wash away the day’s unpleasantness.
However, singing in a shower is worlds better than crying in one! Even if hearty sobs create endorphins that lie and tell me “every little thing is gonna be alright,” singing transports me into movie magic.
“Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” is another shower favorite for me. I conjure up Katherine Ross riding on the handlebars of Paul Newman’s bicycle in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and my world is sunshine through the trees and Newman’s mischievous grin.
(“Raindrops are falling on my head/ And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed/ Nothing seems to fit/ Those raindrops are falling on my head/ They keep fallin’”).
Even if the afterglow of a hot shower with my rousing renditions of movie soundtrack hits lasts only until I remember my list of chores and responsibilities, I’ve washed away some fifty layers of worry. I forget my awkward limp and crooked left arm, my grown sons’ personal struggles, and the world’s most annoying cat who refuses to ever die who shares a 900-square-foot apartment with us.
These day’s my shower’s finale is “Don’t Rain on my Parade” and I become the greatest star – Barbra Streisand – on that tugboat on her way to surprise Omar Sharif in Funny Girl. “Don’t tell me not to live / Just sit and putter/ Life’s candy and the sun a ball of butter/ Don’t bring around a cloud to rain on my parade!” Music has power over reality at times, and we need moments of escape as much as we need a good washing. So I’ll choose confidence and joy over fear and worry every time.
Sittin' Ugly Sistahs 