Monday, November 28, 2005

Go Soak In It

I've been hiding in the closet, but no longer. I've recently learned to accept something about myself after years of pretending, of going along with the group in an attempt to fit in. I cannot stand baths.

What's so fun about them, exactly? They're not relaxing for me. The water is warm for about two-tenths of a second, and if you're in a standard tub and you're a normal size, it barely covers your chest. The rest of the time, you're just sitting there in your own bubbly shea butter-scented filth. I've tried to read in the tub. I can't. The pages get wet, and I spend so much time maintaining the correct temperature of the water that I'm lucky to read a complete paragraph.

I'm done pretending. It's exhausting and expensive. I'm done going to Lush and pretending to get all excited about the bath bombs and buying an armful. OK, I really was excited about the bath bombs, but it was more in theory than actual practice. I have a friend who shall remain nameless who can attest to the fact that overly frequent use of bath bombs will give you a UTI, anyway.

How do you shampoo and condition your hair in the tub? After a few minutes, who wants to stick their head in that water? You could stick your head under the faucet, but then you're just asking for a concussion. You could turn on the shower nozzle and stand up to rinse, but if you're going to do that, why not just take a shower anyway?

I'm done saying, "Oh, boy. What a rough day. I'm going to take a bath when I get home." I'm replacing that phrase with, "Oh, boy. What a rough day. I'm going to have as many drinks as necessary to forget the whole thing even happened."

It seems like such a waste that I choose this particular time to officially decide that I can't see the allure of baths, though. For years, I've coveted a claw-foot tub. This house came with a great one, and when I sit in it, the water goes clear up to my neck. It's a dream.

But can I trade it in for a swimming pool?