Every time I take a shower, there’s a moment where I feel as if I’m in a scene from an indie movie. I’m not exactly sure what it is. Perhaps the total mundaneness of taking a shower. Perhaps it’s the poor lighting coupled with the unsexy ambient sound made by my water pressure and the ceiling fan that accrue into neither a dramatically compelling nor humorous moment. Or it’s my long gaze at my 1980s shower facet, which will need to be turned on and off by a screw driver at any moment now. Each time I look down at the thing, I wonder if this will be the day that the water will just continue to run, no matter how many times I turn that plastic dial around. Or perhaps it’s the reality of my body being the naked body in the shower. My imperfect, pale, hairy body being in shot. I mean, only some low-budget, poorly-lit film set would allow this chick to be naked and on screen and I don’t even mean that in a self-deprecating way. I like my body. It’s just not the kind of body that would show up in a Hollywood shower scene. Only a movie written by Lena Dunham or something, but I think she usually keeps the nude scenes for herself.

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