The steam rising from my morning shower had just started fogging up the bathroom mirror when it happened—that absurd moment when my right hand paused mid-air, shampoo bottle in grip, and suddenly seemed more philosophically aware than my entire college philosophy seminar combined. There it was, my own wrinkled fingertips holding existential answers in the sudsy silence.
We all have these bizarre flashes of awareness at the most mundane times. Maybe while staring at a traffic light counting down, or when the microwave beeps at 2:37AM. For me, it’s always in water’s embrace—where the warmth on my skin becomes a tangible reminder that yes, this body exists, even when my thoughts are busy building cities in the clouds. The showerhead’s rhythm syncs with some deeper pulse, and for three breaths, I’m simultaneously the observer and the observed.
This morning’s revelation came packaged with lavender-scented soap and a dripping elbow. As I watched my right hand—the one that signs leases and holds loved ones and compulsively refreshes news feeds—I realized it also holds something far heavier: the weight of possibility. That same hand had scrolled past a meme yesterday declaring “the future depends on these bad boys” over a photo of upturned palms. We’d laughed, my friends and I, until the silence afterward grew teeth.
There’s something deliciously contradictory about having existential crises while conditioner sets. The hot water keeps reality at bay just long enough to wonder: If God’s plan is the blueprint, does that make me the contractor who keeps misplacing the tools? The steam swirls with unanswerables until the shampoo stings my eyes back to the present—where the only certainty is the citrus body wash sliding down the drain.
Perhaps this is why showers become accidental philosophy classrooms. The white noise creates a sensory deprivation chamber for the soul, the water pressure massages away the illusion of control, and suddenly you’re face-to-face with the cosmic joke—that we’re simultaneously insignificant stardust and the universe’s way of understanding itself. All before the hot water runs out.
By the time I reach for the towel, the profundity has usually evaporated with the steam. But today, the residue lingers like water spots on chrome. My right hand—now pruning—drips onto the bathmat as I consider its twin paradoxes: capable of both changing the world and forgetting where it left the car keys. The future may or may not be written, but this morning’s coffee certainly won’t brew itself. And so the day begins, with one foot in the metaphysical and the other in a puddle of conditioner.
The Existential Seminar in My Shower
The water hits my back at precisely 104°F – that sweet spot between scalding and tepid where skin stops being a boundary and becomes more of a suggestion. Steam rises in lazy spirals, carrying with it the kind of thoughts that only emerge when your body is busy being a body. Right palm pressed against the shower tiles, I count the ridges of grout like they’re Braille messages from the universe. Left hand absentmindedly working shampoo into a lather, and suddenly it occurs to me: this right hand knows things my left doesn’t. Not just about shampoo distribution patterns, but about existing.
There’s something about morning showers that turns the brain into a philosophy lecture hall. Maybe it’s the white noise of falling water drowning out the world’s expectations. Maybe it’s the way hot water makes your skin feel like it’s dissolving boundaries. Whatever the reason, this is where I have my most unlicensed existential crises – the kind where you’re simultaneously wondering about the nature of consciousness while trying to remember if you actually rinsed the conditioner out.
Today’s revelation comes midway through washing my hair. That moment when you’re staring at your pruned fingertips and it hits you: these hands built civilizations. These same hands that can’t seem to close chip bags properly once held the potential for pyramids and sonatas. The absurdity of it makes me laugh, which startles me because when did I last hear my own laughter unmuffled by shower walls?
I press my forehead against the cool tiles, grounding myself in the contrast of temperatures. The body’s insistence on being here now – that’s the real proof of existence Descartes should’ve noted. Not ‘I think therefore I am,’ but ‘I feel this slightly-too-hot water therefore I must be.’ My thoughts build skyscrapers of abstraction while my body remains stubbornly concrete: heart beating, lungs expanding, left foot sticking slightly to the shower floor.
The notification sound from my phone cuts through the steam like an existential alarm clock. Somewhere beyond the curtain, a meme waits to remind me that the future depends on my hands – these same hands currently struggling to open the shampoo bottle cap. The irony isn’t lost on me as I watch water swirl down the drain, taking with it another morning’s unanswerable questions.
When God Meets Memes: Divine Plans and Mortal Shitposts
That meme hit differently at 3 AM. You know the one—a pixelated hand reaching toward a glowing “FUTURE” caption, with the text: “So the future depends… on my hands?” First came the snort-laugh. Then came the existential vertigo. My thumb hovered over the share button as two realities collided: the sacred certainty of God’s plan versus the terrifying freedom of my own sticky fingerprints on everything.
The Theology of Procrastination
We’ve all had those bargaining sessions with the divine. “If you get me this promotion, I’ll finally start volunteering.” “Let me pass this exam and I swear I’ll stop leaving dishes in the sink.” The cosmic irony? Even as we invoke grand destinies, we’re acutely aware of the unmade bed three feet away that’s entirely our fault. My Notes app is a graveyard of unfinished to-do lists that read like half-baked Genesis revisions—Day 3: Separate light from laundry piles.
This tension isn’t new. Medieval monks doodled snails in prayer books margins. TikTok astrologers analyze Mercury retrogrades through SpongeBob clips. Our ancestors carved prophecies into animal bones; we screenshot horoscope memes. The human impulse remains: to hold both the infinite and the mundane in trembling hands.
Hands-On Eschatology
That viral hand meme works because it literalizes our deepest paradox. We claim to believe in divine orchestration, yet live as if holding conductor’s batons. The dissonance manifests in microchoices:
- Hitting snooze versus catching sunrise prayers
- Ordering takeout instead of meal prepping our “best lives”
- Binge-watching shows while vision boards gather dust
Here’s the uncomfortable truth: no amount of reposting “Let go and let God” aesthetics absolves us from showing up to our own existence. Providence doesn’t do your laundry. Grace won’t unclog your shower drain. The miracle is in the doing—the sacred ordinary act of your fingers typing that email, stirring the soup, wiping the toddler’s nose.
A Whiff of Clarity
Just as my existential spiral peaked, the scent of bergamot body wash cut through. That cheap drugstore purchase suddenly became an olfactory anchor—proof that transcendence lives in grocery runs and sudsy hair. Maybe the divine plan unfolds precisely here: in the space between grand destinies and the way my left palm still smells faintly of lemon soap.
(Next: How shower steam makes better philosophers than any seminary)
The Quiet Rebellion of Small Rituals
There’s something almost subversive about standing under warm water at 6:17 AM while the world outside still believes in productivity. The steam rises like thought bubbles – each one containing questions too fragile for daylight. This is where existential anxiety meets its match: in the simple act of choosing lavender over eucalyptus soap.
For those of us who live primarily between our ears, morning rituals become more than hygiene. They’re tiny acts of sovereignty in a world that wants to algorithmize our attention. That ten-minute shower is the only meeting on my calendar where I’m both presenter and audience, where the agenda includes:
- Reacquainting my skin with the concept of boundaries (water temperature as emotional thermostat)
- Conducting the daily plebiscite on whether I’m a conscious entity or just a very elaborate meat computer
- Pretending shampoo instructions are existential koans (“Lather. Rinse. Repeat.” as the Sisyphean condition distilled)
Three Tools for Thought-Hoarders
1. The ‘Junk Drawer’ Journal
Keep a notebook specifically for mental clutter – the half-formed thoughts that circle like nervous hummingbirds. Mine currently contains:
- A diagram comparing my attention span to a Wi-Fi signal
- The phrase “What if hands are just God’s fidget spinners?” written during a Zoom meeting
- Coffee stains arranged in a pattern suspiciously resembling the anxiety spiral emoji (🌀)
2. The 5-3-1 Sensory Reset
When the mental noise becomes unbearable:
- Name 5 textures you’re touching (right now: cotton shirt, keyboard keys, the ghost of that morning’s toothpaste mint)
- Identify 3 background sounds (for me: refrigerator hum, distant lawnmower, my own blinking)
- Claim 1 square foot of space as your philosophical territory (I designate the left armrest of my chair)
3. Meme-as-Meditation
Turn viral content into mindfulness prompts:
- That “This is fine” dog sitting in flames? Your brain on Sunday night existential dread
- Distracted boyfriend meme? Perfect illustration of consciousness trying to choose between present moment awareness and rumination
- Baby Yoda sipping soup? The ideal relationship with one’s own thoughts (gentle curiosity, no rush)
Tomorrow’s experiment: brushing teeth with my non-dominant hand. Not for dental hygiene, but to short-circuit the autopilot that makes half my life disappear into the mental equivalent of the browser’s ‘recently closed tabs’ folder. The future may or may not be in my hands, but at least my molars will bear witness to the attempt.
Today’s microscopic victory: noticing how the afternoon light turns my water glass into a temporary galaxy, complete with swirling constellations of lemon pulp.
The Existential Espresso Spill
Coffee stains have a way of humbling philosophical epiphanies. There I was, mentally drafting a manifesto about divine plans versus human agency when my elbow betrayed me—a caffeinated Rorschach test now blooming across my keyboard. The universe has impeccable comedic timing.
This sticky moment captures our perpetual dance between profundity and pratfalls. We construct elaborate theories of existence, only to be yanked back into bodily reality by something as mundane as spilled liquids or itchy socks. Perhaps that’s the secret lesson: transcendence doesn’t live in grand declarations, but in how we respond when life melts our carefully constructed thoughts into accidental art.
Today’s Tiny Rebellion
Experiment: Water your plants using your non-dominant hand tomorrow morning. Notice:
- The awkward angle of your wrist
- Soil crumbling in unexpected places
- That faint suspicion the plant is judging you
This isn’t just motor skill practice—it’s a micro-revolution against autopilot existence. When routine actions regain their strangeness, we create pockets of mindfulness large enough to breathe in.
Found Philosophy (Window Edition)
The afternoon light paints my coffee catastrophe in unexpected beauty. Sunbeam fractures through window grids transform the stain into:
- A miniature city map of caffeinated districts
- An inkblot test asking “When did you last feel free?”
- Proof that chaos theory applies to breakfast beverages
Sometimes existence winks at us through such accidents. The challenge isn’t interpreting the message, but having the presence to notice it’s there.
Open-Ended Invitation
Where does meaning live when your perfect insight gets interrupted by physical reality? I used to resent these interruptions, until realizing they’re the universe’s way of asking: “Can your philosophy survive contact with laundry day?”
(Your turn: Next time life spills on your abstractions, try seeing the stain as a question mark rather than a mistake. Then tell me—what shape did it take?)
