The jet-lag probably didn't do too much good to his consciousness of the surroundings. He has been feeling cranky, in a strange mood, oscillating between frustration (against what?) and delight (about life?). He didn't take a shower after returning home despite having been in a plane for over eight hours. He was lazy, or at least he didn't want his dry skin to get drier and start itching like crazy. But the day after his return he was feeling yucky, and besides, his legs started itching a lot. At least, however, he went to work, as planned and promised. By 4PM the effect of the jet-lag was grabbing hold. Still, he managed to stay up until 10PM. What happened during those last six hours was a blur. As mentioned, a lot of frustration and delight, but also chaotic thoughts about his return. It's always like this after returning from vacation.
Then he woke up this morning, partly because of the jet-lag, but also because his roommate, quiet as she tried, woke him up on her way to her 6AM meditation. He heard the tires of the cars rolling on what must have been wet roads. He wondered if it was raining or snowing. He didn't want to care. He tried to fall back to sleep, but to no avail. By 7PM he was too frustrated to remain in bed, and so he started planning the steps of the next hour. He was hungry, one of the reasons he failed to fall back asleep. But then, the heat was off, as usual when the apartment's inhabitants were asleep, so he wasn't sure if he wanted to get up. He was still thinking about his trip, the things that had happened.
Finally, he got himself up and walked on the cold, hardwood floor to turn on the heat from the living room. After that he went and started preparing his breakfast, which would take at least 40 minutes because it was steel-cut oatmeal.
His consciousness of the surrounding started to wake up along with the rest of him. He hadn't noticed until later that his bed was more comfortable than any bed he had been in during the two weeks away. He was not entirely aware that he had missed one of his favorite breakfasts, that steel cut oatmeal. He was still dazed but couldn't sleep. His consciousness of the surroundings, the realization of his return, fully came back when he jumped in the shower, having had his oatmeal. During breakfast, he thought enough was enough, it was snowing, as he had guessed while in bed, and he wouldn't be able to go to the gym, which was going to happen before he took his first shower since returning, first in 48 hours. He wouldn't be going to the gym, what with the snow that would prevent him from running in his gym clothes, and besides, he hadn't purchased a membership and the wimps in the gym probably wouldn't bother to show up today at the member services. He wanted to relax, finally, and not have to feel disciplined to go to the gym having missed it the last two weeks. He was aware that his fear of atrophy on the muscles he had so arduously built up the past six months was unfounded. Plain right silly.
So here he was, in the shower. The familiar started to comfort him almost as soon as the warm water covered him like a blanket. The shower knobs, the right pressure of the water streaming down on his skin, the white tiles on the wall, the semi-transparent shower curtain. Though they might not be superior objectively to the equivalents in his other showers during the past two weeks, the familiarity was soothing to him. His world for the moment stopped being in some unknown and inexplicable conflict. He grabs the familiar shower gel and squeezed it onto his shower brush. The white, thick gel oozes out with little blue particles for scrubbing his skin. He had been using this brand for the past six months, and its familiarity is undeniable. He remembered that in the first hotel there wasn't even any shower gel, just a soap that doubled as a hand soap, surely would dry out his sensitive skin. Then the feel of the brush rubbing on his skin was also familiar. He could almost feel the 48-hour old dead skin being sent to their watery funeral and he started feeling fresh again. The smell of the shower gel brought more peace to him. It wasn't a particularly great smelling gel. But it was familiar. After washing off the lather, he grabbed the shampoo. How odd. He almost hesitated. Is this mine? He wondered. It wasn't been that long since he had left, but it was a brand new bottle of shower gel; his history with it had been much shorter. But still, he noticed the English words written on it; for two weeks he had to read everything in a foreign language. The feel of the lather on his scalps was surprisingly familiar. Perhaps it was just an exaggerated sensation of familiarity. Or he was sensitive enough to know the feeling one shampoo on his hair over another kind. He was also pleased that he knew where everything was. At his friend's place, where he spent most of his time, he never got used to where things where, which was the shampoo to use, which body gel, and was it really a body gel or a shampoo or something else? Here knew where his stuff was even if he were showering in total darkness. So without really looking he grabbed the conditioner from the top level. The conditioner brought memories. It was given to him by someone he used to care about. It's an odd gift, but it wasn't a gift; just a connection to a past. And that roiled up his peacefulness a little. Returning home means having to confront his real life again, his feelings therein, his conflicting thoughts. But at least, they are clearer, not like the jumble of craziness he had been experiencing the past day and a half.
He allowed himself to stay in the warm shower a little longer than he allowed himself normally if he were too careful about the water washing away the precious natural oil on his skin. He wanted to savor the peacefulness brought about by the warmth and the familiar objects in the shower. And after he turned off the water, he also felt the familiarity of the warmth of the little bathroom, where heat was being pumped out on this cold, wintry day. He wasn't shivering. He knew how to control the temperature in his house, which is not possible in the different places he had been to the past two weeks. He dried himself in his big, soft towel, the minimal size for his comfort, which was never met during the trip. He liked the feeling of his naked body being completely wrapped up in something soft. It's another kind of comfort. After drying himself, he opened the sink cabinet's door and took out a shower spray. He wanted to reward the shower by giving it a few sprits of the anti-mildew spray. And by the time he was done, he was completely dry. He then applied his moisturizer on the parts of his body most susceptible to the dry winter air. He hadn't done that in a while, but to be fair, where he was, which was very warm and humid, he didn't need moisturizer. But still, it was yet another familiar task that soothed more than his skin.
He looked in the big round mirror. He saw that he was in his bathroom, which he designed himself. He finally recognized that he was there, and not still in some limbo over the Atlantic. He saw that his face didn't look any different. Except that now he had developed a mustache that he hadn't really shaved off because he didn't have the right tools. He had a bar of soap and a very dull razor to use. Now he could open the medicine cabinet, get the shaving cream and a new razor, and shaved his face clean. It was refreshing, on his face as well as his mind. He is still completely naked, but didn't realize it. What he was realizing was the person in the mirror. He was back. He was home, and he was starting the second day since his return but the first day, hopefully, of being aware of his return. There're still clouds of murky thoughts and fatigue, but they are fading away, retreating to give way to a blue sky where he can write down what he wanted and needed to do from now on.
