I have often imagined a world without showers. I believe that someone would have already killed me, probably for my odor-influenced attitude or a sarcastic remark about their mother's ambiguous smell. Everyday I am grateful for my shower, if not while I am in it, then afterwards.

I don't suppose that you've met my shower. If you had, trust me, you'd remember her. My roommates and I have made the lamentable discovery that she is the most vindictive, cantankerous shower on the campus, and is hell-bent on drilling into our freshman minds how insignificant we are. Every evening, at varying times, we voluntarily subject ourselves to our own version of acute mental embarrassment: being outwitted by a shower. It's not the idea of being outsmarted that irritates us as much as the realization that it is an inanimate object that is doing it. And yet there is no known way to beat her; our pathetic attempts merely amuse her, allowing us a moment's respite before an alternating onslaught of frigid and scorching water begins.

It is an impossibility to recognize her status as a non-being. Anything that knows exactly when to alter the temperature to the exact degree to make you whimper in shock must have a personality. That being the case, why couldn't we get the Pollyanna version of our shower? We were not only saddled with the smallest room on the floor, but with the veritable Bertha of showers.

Not that I am any stranger to the questionable joys of the shower kingdom. I have experienced many of their terrors, but always seem to forget what they are capable of. Perhaps it is because a shower has never bested me; I always exit the bathroom clean, if not very cheerful about it. Bertha is just the latest in a long line of showers, to most of whom I am convinced she must be a relation.

There was Mario, her distant cousin in Venice. Upon entering the bathroom, I never thought of what evils he had in store for me. The bathroom was unusual, as instead of the shower having a tub, stall, or curtains, it depended entirely on a drain in the middle of the bathroom to siphon off the water. Okay, I was open to new experiences. I was completely oblivious to the fact that I had already fallen prey to Mario's trap. I started my shower, unaware of my surroundings as I belted out opera-caliber renditions of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight". It was when I noticed I had about two inches of water around my feet that reality set in. I looked around, searching for the source of the water apparently piping into the bathroom. When I spied the trash can floating on the bathroom floor on a layer of soapy water directly above the clogged drain, comprehension dawned. I hurriedly finished my shower, mentally cursing Mario's deviousness as I dried myself with a sopping wet towel that had been on the floor. I left the bathroom, noticing that the level of water around my feet had not yet receded.

Behind me, Mario laughed at my naivete. I could feel the floor tiles high-fiving each other as I followed the pool of water from the bathroom, to my luggage in the bedroom, underneath the bed, and towards the door leading to my room. I was almost afraid to open my door, but I was determined not to let a shower conquer me, and therefore thrust open the door, ready to receive whatever sight met me. The water had crept out from beneath my door down the hallway, and had remained stagnant there, unable to go any farther. Mario sighed in defeat, admitting that his reach was exhausted. I left victorious, but with soggy luggage. It's funny, after an entire day spent with tour guides viewing some of the most magnificent examples of architecture that Venice had to offer, the only imagery I am left with is that of Mario in his lair and a trash can drifting over the tiled floor.

I also met one of Bertha's sisters, Martha, in London. She just appeared to be dirty, which you'd expect from a shower of Bertha's lineage. I therefore entered her tiny cubicle, prepared only for a normal encounter. I was somewhat upset when Martha's shower head produced a dribble, instead of the stream that I was accustomed to. No matter, I thought, I'll just take a longer shower. Martha had other plans. I quickly understood that it was rather difficult to take any sort of shower when the shower curtain acted as a raincoat. For you see, Martha was not content to stop at producing a veritable drizzle, she felt obliged to protect me from it. Every way I moved, the curtain stuck to me like a second skin, completely defeating the purpose of taking a shower in the first place. However, with considerable maneuvering I accomplished it, and left yet another of Bertha's kin defeated and in want of a new victim. I spent two days in London, yet after viewing Les Miserables for the first time, seeing the Parliament, walking over the London Bridge, and gazing at Big Ben, Martha is still the first object to come to mind whenever I think of my time there.

Why is my memory so selective? I either have some inexplicable fetish for showers or a really weird recollection process. When others talk of the spirituality of the Pieta in Venice, or the overwhelming grace of Westminster Abbey, I nod my head and smile, acknowledging that I've been there. But if they were to ask me what I remember most about my trip to Europe, I would have to admit that it is the showers. My family commiserated over those showers beyond all other aspects of our trip; even my incessant whining about the food could not eclipse the shared suffering we experienced in the hygiene department.

When my brother and I were young, my mother says that we went to Disneyland. My brother and I remembered nothing of this trip, and so for years we thought that this tale was just a likely excuse for why we never got to go anywhere fun during the summer. ("Well, you obviously didn't appreciate it the first time, why should you go again?""But Mom, I was three!") Mom and I talked about this trip recently, and she miraculously produced photographs documenting our visit there. After cringing at the polyester-influenced clothing I had chosen to wear, suppressed memories wafted back into my recollection. It wasn't dancing with Winnie the Pooh that I remembered, but the unearthly terror that something would spring out of the water on the "It's a Small World" ride and eat me.

Throughout my past, there are a plethora of events where I remember the exact wrong things. I don't remember seeing Old Faithful erupt, but I can tell you about the ground hogs burrowing under the boardwalk that encircled it. I can't recall what Goodhue, North Dakota looked like, but there is a general store there where my mom bought me an orange-scented pencil. I have no memory of the view from the Statue of Liberty, but I recollect crawling up all of her steps, scared to death of standing and looking down at the spiral staircase my family was climbing.

I am almost afraid to think of what I will remember about my freshman experience years from today. My roommates and I have empathized with each other so often about the size of our room and the quirks of Bertha that they have become a mainstay of conversation in our room. Four years from now I will probably not remember the initial uneasiness universal to freshmen, but will be able to recount every aspect of Bertha in her pink-tiled glory. I won't know what classes I took, but I will be able to tell you the date upon which we first named her.

It would appear that my brain is warped. Instead of concentrating on the important, relevant subjects in life, it revolves around the utterly useless. (Which causes me to question why I don't remember more of the calculus that I've learned.) I'm not overly upset by this; if nothing else, it makes for rather interesting annecdotes (and the facial contortions of those listening is not to be missed...). And so, while I may not gain the correct memories from past events, I still wouldn't have it any other way. Keep that in mind the next time you face off your shower.