My wife is a cold-water swimmer. Not merely someone who takes the occasional bracing dip in summer, but one of those extraordinary people who voluntarily enters water at temperatures that would persuade most sensible mammals to migrate south. She emerges invigorated, glowing with health and apparently delighted with the experience. I wouldn't step into cold water if my life depended on it. Although, on reflection, that's probably the one circumstance in which I would.
This morning, however, as I stepped out of a gloriously hot shower, feeling thoroughly refreshed and rather pleased with the world, a thought occurred to me. Why is it that cold water receives all the publicity for its supposed health benefits, while hot water, which has been providing humanity with considerable pleasure for thousands of years, gets so little recognition?
We seem to have developed an extraordinary reverence for discomfort. Cold-water swimming, ice baths and freezing showers are presented almost as moral achievements. Apparently, deliberately subjecting yourself to something unpleasant demonstrates discipline, improves resilience and does wonderful things to your metabolism. One gets the impression that the more miserable the experience, the greater the virtue. Suffering repackaged as wellness.
Hot water, by contrast, requires no courage whatsoever. You simply turn on the tap, adjust the temperature until it feels delightful, and enjoy yourself. Perhaps that's its problem. We've become suspicious of anything that makes us feel good without demanding some form of sacrifice.
The Japanese have understood the virtues of hot water for centuries. Their *onsen*, those wonderful natural hot springs, and traditional *sento* bathhouses are not simply places to get clean. They're places to relax, contemplate and restore one's sense of wellbeing. You wash first, then immerse yourself in hot water for the sheer pleasure of it. There is something rather civilised about sitting in a steaming outdoor pool surrounded by snow, contemplating the mountains while your muscles surrender to the warmth. Compare that with plunging into an icy lake and desperately trying to remember why you thought it was a good idea.
The Romans were equally enthusiastic. Their magnificent bathhouses had heated floors, steam rooms and pools of different temperatures. The *caldarium* provided serious heat, while the *frigidarium* offered a cold plunge, often at the end of the bathing sequence. So I cannot entirely recruit the Roman Empire to my cause. Nevertheless, they developed elaborate engineering systems to heat their baths and devoted enormous resources to making bathing pleasurable. Had cold water alone been the pinnacle of human wellbeing, they could simply have jumped into the nearest river and saved themselves a fortune.
And what of the science? Cold-water immersion certainly produces a dramatic physiological response, and there is some evidence of benefits for mood and wellbeing, although the research is considerably less conclusive than its enthusiasts suggest. Hot water has measurable benefits too, encouraging relaxation, affecting circulation and potentially improving sleep. The evidence for both deserves rather more attention than the fashionable assumption that discomfort must somehow be healthier.
Perhaps the most curious aspect is the belief that feeling invigorated requires a shock to the system. My wife emerges from cold water feeling wonderfully alive. I emerge from hot water feeling much the same. We have apparently arrived at a similar destination by entirely different routes, although mine involves considerably less shouting.
There is also something deliciously contradictory about the whole business. Humanity spent thousands of years discovering fire, developing clothing, building shelters and eventually inventing central heating. Civilisation has been, in considerable measure, a sustained effort to protect ourselves from the cold. Now, having achieved the remarkable luxury of remaining comfortably warm whenever we choose, some people voluntarily return to the conditions our ancestors spent millennia trying to escape.
I don't doubt that cold-water swimming gives my wife enormous pleasure. But why should she be admired for emerging refreshed from an icy lake, while I am regarded as merely having enjoyed a shower? Both of us feel better afterwards. The principal difference is that one has endured considerable discomfort and the other hasn't.
Personally, I regard that as a point in favour of hot water.
So I shall continue to admire my wife's enthusiasm from a respectful distance, preferably somewhere warm. She can have her icy lakes and invigorating winter mornings. I shall have my hot shower.
Some of us simply prefer our wellbeing without the suffering.
No comments:
Post a Comment