There are certain things that enter your life without warning and quietly, permanently alter your existence. Sometimes it’s an idea. Sometimes it’s a person. Sometimes—if you’re lucky—it’s a small wooden stool in a shower in Mexico.
About two years ago, we traveled to Mexico for my best friend’s wedding. It was, without exaggeration, magical. The kind of trip you reference for years afterward as “that was the perfect vacation.” Friends, family, sun, drinks, laughter—an almost suspicious level of joy.
But that’s not what changed my life.
The morning after we arrived, I woke up early—as I always do—quietly slipping out of bed to avoid waking anyone. The plan was simple: quick shower, then out to catch the sunrise like some sort of semi-enlightened vacation monk. Still half asleep, I stepped into the shower, turned the water on, and that’s when I saw it.
Sitting in the corner. Unassuming. Silent. A shower stool.
Now, I hadn’t sat down in a shower since I was a teenager, and even then it was likely under questionable circumstances involving exhaustion or poor life choices. But something about this moment felt… different. So I sat.
And in that instant, my life divided itself cleanly into two eras: Before Stool and After Stool.
There’s no dramatic way to say this without sounding ridiculous, so I won’t try to avoid it—I immediately knew I would never willingly stand in a shower again.
The rest of the trip continued as expected: a beautiful wedding, late nights, endless laughter. But beneath it all, running quietly in the background of my consciousness, was the stool. Always the stool.
When we returned home, reality hit hard. My showers reverted to what I can only describe as medieval conditions—standing upright, water hitting me like I was being processed rather than cleansed. No seat. No peace. Just me and gravity. It felt… primitive.
I spoke about the stool often. Too often, probably. Enough that it became less of a memory and more of a mild obsession.
Then, just as I was resigning myself to a life of unnecessary verticality, Mary Ann gave me a gift: my own teak shower stool.
I don’t want to oversell this moment—but I also refuse to undersell it. It was transcendent. The clouds parted. A beam of light practically anointed it. I’m not saying it glowed, but I am saying I wouldn’t rule it out under proper lighting conditions.
From that day forward, I became a different man. A seated man.
Now, each morning, I take my place—not as some rushed participant in the chaos of the day—but as a calm, grounded presence. A thinker. A philosopher. A slightly damp contemplative figure sitting beneath a steady stream of water that smells unmistakably, unapologetically, like Irish Spring.
It’s less a shower and more a ritual. A return. A small, daily act of refusing unnecessary struggle.
I only stand now when I travel, and even then it feels like a betrayal of everything I know to be true. If the stool fit in my carry-on, I assure you, it would be coming with me.