My morning routine is much like my dog; rather lazy and set in its ways. Shower, dress, walk/feed the dog, walk/feed myself, pack my lunch and be out the door within 50 minutes of my alarm. With such monotony, it’s easy to notice–over time–life’s nuances: Eleanor’s varying temperaments, the CNN American Morning host’s continued inappropriate divulging of personal information and the way I tend to give up on my appearance by Friday of each week.

It’s probably these tiny differences between days and actions that make day-to-day life interesting. [I was about to use the word "bearable," but it's Friday. If it were Monday, "bearable" it would be.]

For those of you who knew me between the ages of 18 and 20, I hope you’re happy to hear that showering is now a part of that daily routine. Priorities change with time, I suppose, as does a desire to see Phish in as many venues of possible. That said, it’s really when I mix up my hosing-off drill that one such life nuance becomes noticeable: water temperature.

As a creature of habit, I tend to allow my faucet settings to remain static. I have a shower faucet with temperature settings independent of flow control (unlike the stand-in image, above) and I know that I like a nice mild-to-moderately hot rinser, so why mess with it?  If circumstances (read: impromptu weeknight bar crawls) arise, however, I may move my daily baptism in Irish Spring (Walgreen’s brand, obviously) to post-workout afternoon/evenings, which adds an entirely new task to wash, rinse & repeat–shower faucet calibration.

Undoubtedly due to the combination of plumbing limitations and my neighbors’ synchronized morning routines, the same faucet setting produces two varied temperatures between morning and evening lather-laden frolics. It’s a shock to the system, to say the least, when your expectation of tepid comfortability is met with scalding resistance.

The shower is an environment conducive to pensive reflection and this not-quite-a-phenomenon (my bar is pretty low for phenomena these days) has provided plenty of material.

I find calibration to be a large component of adult life.

Take, for instance, another phenomenon of late (keep in mind, that bar is really low)–revisiting relationships of yore. I used to think that I was the only one who has, in the past, referred back to my “Greatest Hits” album. You know, the relationships that–in hindsight–didn’t seem so bad.  It turns out that many of my nearest & dearest also have this in album their music libraries, just with different names (e.g. “Now That’s What I Call Relationships Now,” volumes 1-17, as seen on t.v.). It’s a rekindling of once-extinguished flames with the hopes of returning to all of the good without inviting back the bad.

I’ve learned, after many a’ trial & error, that these attempts are great in theory but…uhhh…unlikely in execution. It’s like getting into the shower at 8pm with the expectation that the water temperature will be just fine; that it’s just like a morning shower in that it will invigorate and start a new day. The difficulty, though, comes from the hot water heater having all day to recharge itself; to refill its bowels with an entirely new product…a product that can scold you.

Thus, calibration.

Expectations. Emotions. Empanadas. (I’m just hungry and need a third word that starts with “e.”) All of these things require a periodic shift relative to circumstances. They call for an understanding that things change–for the better and for the worse–and that adaptability is an evolutionary requirement. Sink or swim. Rinse and repeat.

The beliefs I held and the reactions I had in years past don’t resemble the ones I embody now. And they shouldn’t. The template I’ve created for my life (because, unfortunately, those aren’t included on the backs of diplomas or cereal boxes) has been reformulated and renamed over and over and over. And it should be.

So there it is. I now take life advice from and comfort in inanimate objects.

And, for the sake of full disclosure, I only wash & rinse.  No more repeating.