It’s 7:30 a.m. on a wintry March morning. I’m standing in my apartment’s cramped bathroom wearing little more than a towel and a determined look on my face. The shower is running, as it generally does at this time of day, but with one all-too-glaring omission: warm, familiar tendrils of steam wafting up from the bathtub. My goal this morning is to jump into a cold shower. Full stop.
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