As recorded by Humphrey Thistlewhite, devoted accountant and accidental participant in the office's latest wellness trend.
I’ve been contemplating the peculiar phenomenon of cold showers lately. Not by choice, mind you—though my building’s temperamental water heater did provide an unexpectedly forceful introduction to the practice. No, I’m pondering the curious transformation of my perfectly sensible colleagues into what I can only describe as a cult of cold water enthusiasts.
It started innocently enough with Thompson from Marketing. One Monday morning, he bounced into our weekly status meeting practically glowing, as if he’d discovered the secret to eternal youth in his bathroom. “Cold showers,” he announced, unprompted, while I was trying to focus on our quarterly projections. “Changed my life.” Rather like how Mrs. Henderson from Accounts Payable claims her crystals changed hers, though at least this practice doesn’t require rearranging your desk furniture to align with cosmic energy fields.
The thing about cold shower converts, you see, is that they possess an almost evangelical fervour about their morning torture ritual. They’ll corner you by the coffee machine, eyes bright with the zeal of the newly converted, eager to explain how voluntary hypothermia is actually the secret to productivity, improved immunity, and possibly world peace. It’s rather like being cornered by someone wanting to discuss their latest dietary revelation, except instead of kale smoothies, they’re advocating for what amounts to a daily recreation of the Arctic Ocean in your bathroom.
I must admit, my curiosity got the better of me—a weakness that has previously led to such questionable decisions as joining the office’s “Extreme Origami Club” and volunteering to organize the annual audit paperclip inventory. So one morning, steeling myself with the same resolve I use when approaching month-end reconciliations, I turned the temperature dial all the way to blue.
The experience, I must report, was remarkably similar to my first attempt at public speaking: initial panic, followed by an inability to breathe properly, culminating in a strange sort of euphoric pride at having survived. Though I dare say the audience at my first presentation was considerably warmer than the water temperature that morning.
The purported benefits are quite extensive, according to the growing contingent of cold shower evangelists in our office. Improved circulation (though I would argue that running from the water counts as cardiovascular exercise), enhanced mental clarity (nothing quite focuses the mind like imminent freezing), and better stress management (presumably because all other daily stressors pale in comparison to your morning voluntary cryotherapy session).
I’ve noticed an interesting social hierarchy developing among the converts. Those who take the longest cold showers speak with the authority of polar bear club veterans, while those of us who merely endure a 30-second cold rinse are regarded with the kind-hearted patience usually reserved for beginning birdwatchers who still get excited about pigeons.
The most curious effect, however, has been on our office’s morning dynamics. Where once we discussed weekend plans and complained about Monday traffic, we now compare shower temperatures with the same enthusiasm meteorologists reserve for tracking approaching storm systems. Johnson from IT has even created a spreadsheet to track the correlation between cold shower duration and productivity metrics. (Though I suspect the improved productivity has more to do with people rushing to finish their work so they can go home to their warm showers.)
I suppose the moral of this curious case is that discomfort, voluntarily embraced, has a way of transforming from torture to triumph. Though personally, I’m still not entirely convinced that enlightenment requires quite so many goosebumps. At least my hot water bill has decreased significantly, which my inner accountant finds oddly satisfying.
P.S. If anyone from Building Maintenance is reading this, I’ve grown quite accustomed to the broken water heater now, so there’s really no rush to fix it. Consider it an involuntary contribution to the wellness initiatives.