When Jim asked me when was the last time that someone was in my bathtub, I scrunched up my face to give it some real thought. Five or six months ago, I think. I don’t like baths. The idea of marinating in a Megan broth isn't even close to appealing. And that bath five months ago was with The Wasband; it was part of me trying to edit my behaviors to be a better wife. (Fail.)
I’ve been irked since recalling the last time that my tub got play. Even though the darling maids dust the thing every two weeks, I suddenly felt like there was a residue in the big basin. I figured it was time to wash that man right outta my tub.
So I took a bath.
And what I got was a big fat reminder of why I never do it. Planning a damn bath is like putting together a road trip—making the event worth my time is a freaking production. I keep bubble bath for when the nieces and nephews are in town. (Because what kid doesn’t go bananas for a soothing soak in some lavender and chamomile water? No worries though, I also keep Crayola colored bath tablets on hand to mitigate the feminine stodginess of a tub scented with herbs and tea.) So I fetched that goo from the guest bathroom. See, when it comes to a bath, bubbles are necessary. I can’t understand the allure of baths in the first place, so I extra can’t understand sitting in a tub without some obscuring element. Especially if you’re a dude. Seeing as the male genitalia isn’t God’s finest work, there’s something flawed about a guy sitting in a self-pond watching his junk float in the water like fleshy kelp. So I say get some bubbles to hide that shit. A bath’s supposed to be pleasant, right?
So that the soak didn’t bore me to sleep, I played Cupcake Wars on my computer and set it on the bathroom counter. So that the experience could be productive, I got the shaving cream and razor out of my shower. And knowing that I was going to do some ritual bathing, earlier today I bought some tension-releasing bath salts of some kind. Not the smartest $7 I’ve ever spent, ‘cause those things ain’t never gettin’ used again. Someone please invent this: bath salts that double as candy. Then at least they wouldn’t go to waste. Oh, and so that I didn’t starve or find myself wanting to drink the bathwater, I put a snack and a soda nearby.
Then there’s this: I suck at drawing baths. Did you know that’s a skill? Oh, it is, and I don’t have it. The damn tub was taking for-ev-urh to fill up, so I checked the drain. It was closed tight. The problem: I didn’t have the faucet open all the way. So I turned up the water, (Is that even a thing?) which introduced the ineludible temperature problem:
I make the hottest friggin’ baths you’ve ever taken. It means that once the tub is finally full and I’m starkers, I dip a toe, practically burn the little appendage right off and have to go get my robe so that I don’t freeze to death while I’m waiting for the bath to cool down. But I’m not patient. So I give it like, uh, a minute and a half before I’m naked again and perched on the edge of the tub shaving my legs. It takes twenty minutes before I can actually sit down all the way in the tub, and by that time I’ve got sweat trailing down my neck and feel like I need a shower. Even if I dump gallons of ice water in the bath before I get in, I'll always end up sweaty and befuddled about the merits of the whole thing.
And I can't seem to manage to put in the right amount of bubble bath. If I’m making your bath it will be three-quarters bubbles, and, once drained, the tub will sound like Pop Rocks for the next hour and a half while all the froth dissolves.
But it was worth it. There’s a new scum in the tub. And it’s all mine.