An internet amigo wrote some months ago about wanting a golden shower. No, it’s not what you’re thinking. His golden shower was in fact a shower stall made of gold, not the practice some may be familiar with.

I’m a simple man, materialistically and intellect-wise. While a shower made of gold would be pretty I don’t know if conventional cleaning products would be able to assist in removing the soap scum from the walls. Do they make Mr. Clean Gold?

I digress.

I don’t want a golden shower, I want a cold shower. As simple as that. I would like to have my body assaulted by icy needles of H2O jetting from my showerhead. I want to shiver and wince, and smile, as polar water covers my body. I want my shower to be so cold that polar bears and penguins would be comfortable if I invited them to partake.

Why? The water in my shower, my whole apartment, is not cold. It’s a shade of cold. In a sub-tropical clime anything not refrigerated is hot. I can’t expect my shower water to be an icy blast when the mercury hovers around one hundred and the Humidex reading makes angels weep.

By the end of a hot day four wet shirts have taken up residence in my hamper. (I have yet to cross the mythical five shirt line. I think Nostradamus wrote something about the man who wears five shirts and a zombie apocalypse. I could be mistaken.) Do some errands, return to my apartment soaked. A walk home from school leaves me looking as if I’ve taken a dip in a pool.

With the change of shirt comes a shower, a lukewarm experience that does little to relieve my suffering. A cold shower would refresh. I dream of icebergs. Seeing Leonardo DiCaprio treading water at the end of Titanic makes me envious.

Some want golden showers, I wish for a cold one, blessed relief, however temporary.