Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Bubbles and Bliss
I love a good bath. Showers are nice and all, but nothing can come close to the soothing properties of sitting in hot water. It’s rejuvenating, relaxing, refreshing...rehabilitating...re..re... well, you get the point. I like baths.
I love how the simple act of taking a bath makes it easier for me to face the world. I feel bolstered after a good bath. Not just clean, but restored (did I use that "re" already?). It's like my battery charger. Leave me alone for 45 minutes or so and I emerge a cleaner and nicer human. Smelling good and feeling smooth are like shields against the frustrations of the world. Calgon, take me away indeed.
I can't recall a time when I didn't enjoy my bath time, but I do recall fussing and fighting my mother when I was younger over baths. I never wanted to stop playing to take a bath. It seemed like such a waste of time. Of course, once I was in the water, I never wanted to get out until I was all pruny fingers and wrinkly toes. It's as if I magically forgot how much fun I had in the bath once I wasn't there. There was just as much playing to be had in the bath as out. I had these fabulous soap crayons that I got to use to draw on the walls and floating toys and dinosaur shaped sponges... But getting to that part was a struggle.
Now, it's frequently one of the best parts of my day.
I have and enjoy all manner of bath products: fizzes, oils, bubbles, gels, scrubs, washes, bars and brushes. I'm also just content to sit in hot water with a book, a snack and a drink. Bath goodies comprise the majority of my cosmetic purchases, and see much more use than any new lip gloss or eye cream. Ever try a good sugar scrub? One that's really oil in sugar, not sugar in oil? If not, I highly recommend you do so. Or a salt one--those are good too. I never did grow out of bubble baths either. They're just too much fun. I still enjoy making shapes out of the bubbles--hats and epaulettes, mountains to crush with downpours and tsunamis. I'm still fascinated by the fact that I turn red like a lobster and the stark delineation between my pasty whiteness and the hot-water-pink.
My cats are fascinated by this. They pace the edge of the tub, reaching to drink the water--even though it's usually well over 100 degrees, and must taste like soap. I pet them with wet hands and they run off indignant, only to come back to settle on the floor by my towel, or perched on the edge, waiting for me to move my legs so they can get back to their drinking. They've occasionally been so brave as to venture a paw or tail into the water, and then are so offended at being wet that they shake the offending part about until it creates a mess and then sit down in the midst of their destruction to take a bath themselves.