The joy of dirt.

I dreamt of showers. Literally I awoke this morning disappointed there was no high-pressure, steaming hot water pelting my skin; only two comforters and many layers of clothes kept me so warm. I won't complain though, as this is a nice change from the nightmares that have tormented me night after night for exactly three weeks. Last night there were no friends being murdered, dogs hunting me down, or witness protection programs. I cannot stress enough how these terrors are not a reflection of my feelings here--I've been happier in Amman than most of my recent life. The nightmares constantly visited regardless and I constantly awoke happy I was not falling off a cliff.

I'll attribute the blessed dream of a long, hot shower to switching my night-time reading to something more pleasant thanks to my Australian flat mate/litterateur. But waking from happy places in my head also means these places are not real--and thus frustrating. But why am I ranting about showers? One might think complaining about awaking right before biting into a cupcake or discovering you haven't found The Most Beautiful Person In the World to marry is more offensive than not being able to shower. If you know where Jordan is, you'll know it's in a desert, and water isn't east to come by. I shower every third day. 

Yes, believe it, the Italian with "Extra Virgin Olive Oil hair" flicks on the water heater thirty minutes before stepping into the shower every three days. I'm then allotted about 3 minutes of torture during which I attempt to keep as much water as possible in the actual bath tub. Our landlord would of course not waste money on shower curtains when a person only spends about 27 minutes a month in the thing. Nevertheless, I found a morsel of hope among the dirt in which I wallow.

During the down moments we have in the apartment, which are few, we have developed the Michael-and-Mary Special of reading The Economist to each other out loud. I was thrilled to find an article (named quite similarly to this one) about why people should stop trying to be so clean. It said, "Some researchers in Britain have even found what they think might be dirt that can make people happy. The results, says Chris Lowry, at Bristol University, 'leave us wondering if we shouldn’t all be spending more time playing in the dirt.' "

I find solace in these words as I enter a yellow taxi every day to class that hasn't been vacuumed in three years and who's main function is an ashtray for the driver. Emma spotted a driver cleaning his car with water from a lake made of 54% shoes and tires. My leg was brushed by a poor stray cat with 1.5 eyes. The set of clothes I wore to Petra (for two days--we didn't expect it to be an overnight trip) have been washed but still look to me as though they are painted red with dirt.  

I do all that I can to remain presentable with one suitcase-full of clothing and the few toiletries I've purchased. A couple coats of deodorant is a must even in the cold weather, plus plenty of perfume. I've caught Michael stealing my scarves for their "wondrous odor of blessings and good tidings," so I must be doing something right. 

After trying to convince myself that I'm alright with few cleanings, I finally had the dream about the shower and everything changed. I have decided to join the local gym--free showers, as long as I like, every day. And a plug for my hair dryer so I don't use up a million dinars worth of power--every third day. 

This realization was made all the more important when Sam and Diwa brought home Hedgehog Slice that we have lovingly dubbed "Pig Muck" because of the situation in which Sam caught Diwa and me.

Back by popular demand...the photo. 

Definitely going to the gym tomorrow. I already bought shoes.