The Right Way to Shower; Wash Your Legs


That folks openly question leg hygiene in open forums tells me that some of y’all need to learn the right way to shower. 

We operate amongst online societies inhabited by netizens just itching for people to virally screw up.

That way, employers can be notified of bad employee opinions and take the appropriate action. IE: “I stalked this person with bad leg hygiene on LinkedIn, and they claim to work for you. The person had the nerve to say, ‘__________________.’ I think the person should be fired.” 

And then the firing will go viral and get a write-up on RawStory or some other TMZ wannabe. “Five things you need to know about the anti-leg washing individual.” 

And do you really want to engage in this space with shower illiteracy?

Suddenly your face could appear in the same viral circles as Kardashians and mumble rap stars you never heard of but have great cars. 

Aunt Beatrice will post the story to her feed and tag your mom; “Did you see this, Betty? Your kid is famous. LOL.” 

And mom will untag herself — scream into her favorite fucking pillow and plot revenge. 

And weeks later, violence — hurled chicken wings and insults at Buffalo Wild Wings. It was supposed to be a birthday party, but the Facebook post about your viral poor leg hygiene takes came up.

“You can go to hell, Beatrice; everyone knows you’ve been cheating on your husband!”

Flying drumettes and fists and Nan passing out into a chair, waving at her face. 

And, of course, this also goes viral. The headline reads, “Everyone is Karen at Bailey’s Crossroads BDubs.”


I’ve seen online that folks have published step-by-step instructions on the right way to shower. And even though this is ostensibly also a blog about showering. Trust me, I’m an expert (more on this in a bit).

And from what I’ve read online, I’m not convinced y’all are getting expert advice. The thinking in a few spots is to start with hair. And that’s wrong. Obviously, I am suspect here — I’m bald.

But you don’t jump into hair without first dealing with your hands.

I also now recognize a problem with my “Right Way to Shower” title. Let’s pretend the title includes “for dudes or ladies who don’t use conditioner.”

Sidebar: for good SEO, I need to keep the title short and on the subject (I’m on a mission to make the SEO crawlers happy)

And I can hear your critique, “why not lose the bit about washing legs to fit that bit in?” No way, man, or lady, that was my initial draft title. It was to be “Wash Your Legs” by Ray Houghton.

And launch into a pithy blog about the right way to shower — which includes fucking washing your legs. So I am sticking with my conjunctive-ass SEO-friendly title.

A blog on the right way to shower must consist of “wash your goddam legs.” If only because you get the basics of how water reacts to gravity and that your legs are just above your ass.

Sorry, folks openly questioning the need to wash their legs trigger internal terrors of being targeted by military school upperclassmen looking to beat anyone’s ass for being unsat.


Being out of step, literally or figuratively, makes you a target. And in a place founded on regimentation, precise movement, and discipline, you might as well pat an “attack me after I’ve gone to sleep” Post-it note to your back.

Military school switches to Lord of the Flies when the lights go out.

In ’91, a power outage struck from a fierce little Carolina storm. The thunderhead blocked out the sun, thunder crashed — lights went out. And for a second, everything was black.

But I could make out my roommate’s grin when my eyes adjusted. He leaped from his chair, threw the door wide, and collected into a growing wildcat mob of “shit starting.”

The hall was dim from the emergency lights on either side of the hallway. Bodies circled in the darkness, blurring around and around as if trapped in a washing machine loop. Each exhibited various stages of uniform misconduct, some half-naked shouting, laughing, and screaming.  

And from the other end of the hallway, which housed the rooms of the older, larger kids, I heard a rumble. Shapes and shadows rushing closer, blotting out the emergency lights on the far end. 

Suddenly cascades of “older boys” intermixed the hallway revelry, wielding laundry bags stuffed taut with soiled clothing.

And in the darkness, a Braveheart battlefield became pinched to accommodate a hallway. A dark storm of punches and clubbings ended in blood and concussion.

Yet, no one asked for their mother. The beaten, bloodied still knew no loyalties. Any revenge one could take for our beating would be sweet enough, even at the expense of our fellow fallen.


So… if you are about to send your kid to military school — tell that shithead to use a lot of deodorants.

Manufacture horseshit family lore that a great-grandfather saved Winston Churchill’s life with his Sure deodorant and a lighter. “Henry, your great-goddam-grandfather saved fucking Winston Churchill with Sure, and he would want you to use it. All over. I want grandkids.”

Military school is not the place to exhibit body odor. At least, fortunately, you will have a warning, beginning harmlessly enough with non-contact abuse.

If the gentle prodding of hurtful language that will forever contribute to neurosis doesn’t give you a hint, a blanket party or something worse awaits.  

A call will go out, like a game of telephone, “Smith, shower party, tattoo, bring a sponge.” The whispers including name, time, and the cleaning weapon of choice.

And as you would expect with telephone, the weapon would metastasize into a host of different cleaning products, sprays, sponges, and brushes. One dumbass showed up with Brasso (that shit was too expensive to waste in hazing).  

Kids would decide, “well shit, if brushes are above board, I can bring a toilet brush.” And others would decide steel wool classified as a sponge.

The target would be forcefully grabbed by the biggest, dragged screaming and jerking to the shower stalls, followed by a parade of others holding the cleaning supplies. 

The target was deposited feet first into the shower room and deposited under hot water. And at this point, everyone gathered would get in their licks.

Thankfully the dreaded “shower party” was rare. I only ever witnessed one. Well, 1.5 — .5 went to the kid that fought back well enough to dissuade others from giving him the entire experience. 


My personal shower party was basically being led to the showers in class uniform and ordered to stand under hot water. Really, mine was a blessing. It occurred during an epically long “hall party,” and I had to pee. 

A “hall party” meant standing at attention for long periods while upperclassmen hovered, shouting abuse inches from terrified young faces.

When it was my turn to take the jumping face shouting treatment, the dude stopped mid-sentence — “Houghton, you stink!” Grabbed me by my nape and half-carried me to the shower stalls. Turned on the hot water and pushed me under.

“At attention!” 

And then I was left alone under a cascade of scalding water. Which was way easier than catching spittle and awful breath shouting grievances about low-stakes shit. The hot water wasn’t so bad with clothes on, and it quickly dulled to lukewarm.

The shouting went on in the hallway while I relieved myself and semi-relaxed under the flowing water. A breeze.

Still, I learned my lesson: wash thoroughly and never stink. 

All this is to stay; I know how to shower under threat. I am a shower expert.


And really quick, this is more of an order thing; we all have a firm grasp on what soaps work for us.

The right way to shower is to start at the trunk and appendages. This solves an issue with every other how-to-shower blog or post; you don’t want to start anywhere before you wash your hands.

And as you wash your hands, get into a washing rhythm on your chest, neck, back, and arms. Typically less icky areas.

Move to your face, and behind the ears. 

Then grab your shampoo and get to work (BTW, I don’t straight razor my head, so I have sprouts of hair to labor over if anyone cares). Get in between your ears again (basically the head’s underarms).

Then — wait, don’t wash the shampoo suds off your hands; save the remnants for between your toes.

I have heard people admit they casually wash the tops or bottoms or let suds pass over their feet. Trust me, unless you want your shoes to reek, get in between your toes, preferably twice.

Then grab your soap and wash your underarms and private areas. Don’t be as shy about cleaning these areas as I am about going into detail about the process.

Rewash your hands, and then move further south to wash your legs, please. 


The areas that would typically raise your likelihood of getting an ass-whooping in military school are your underarms, privates, and feet. Since your legs are between the two locations that could mark you for a beatdown — I would implore you to include them on your shower journey.

And look, every person is different. Situations, cultures, body types, ages, and abilities of the cornucopia of humanity make some net rando telling you how to wash so absurd as to be borderline offensive.  

So while I told you the right way to shower, who gives a shit. I don’t have any expertise other than getting beat up a lot over smelling rotten in reform school. 

Make it your own.

But you should be washing your legs, it takes just a few more moments, and it is worth the trouble considering your ass is essentially glued to them.

And if you ever decide to send someone to military school, pack them a ton of Axe body spray.

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