The Gift of Unreason

Do you ever act out of hopes you know (intellectually) to be impossible? As if your spine is making decisions for you despite what your logic has to say about it?

You hear all the arguments in your head, recognize the validity of the proofs, feel your ears ringing with the cast-iron alibi of it all, and still you do what you want to do, based on something you wish for but don't have any expectations of getting. But you hope for it anyway.

And so you take the Special Shower: the kind where everything is shaved (even though it's not summer and there's no bikini-wearing occasion on the horizon), and then you go the whole nine yards and use the last of the sugar cane body polish, which smells like honey and is full of those yummy tropical nut oils, and you practically slide out of the shower like a freshly bloomed orchid.

There's no reason to hope for anything, and I certainly have no specific plans to see he who shall not be named (not That He Who Shall Not Be Named). But it's been a long time since I've even been in his orbit, what with the Boywich visit and the horrible sickness that followed it, and the need to wash every single piece of bedding I own afterwards. (It was the kind of illness that makes me yearn to fumigate.)

Anyway, all of this is really apropos of nothing, other than that I wonder if I am not the only one who's ever engaged in hopeful showering.