This post is part of a Blog Carnival, which is a collection of simultaneous blog posts from various contributors. To find some of my fellow blog carnies, click this link.
Let’s Talk About Bath Time
|No, not this Bath.|
Before I start, let me explain that I’m a parent. I can see some of you nodding your heads. And do you know how I can see you? I have EYES EVERYWHERE, which were issued to me during childbirth. As a custodian of little ones (bipedal and quadrupedal offspring), I am all-knowing and all-seeing when it comes to shenanigans. I’m not saying this is a positive quality to have as a parent, but I can’t shut it off. This constant, not-so-white noise feedback loop is not good for collecting my thoughts and allowing creativity to flow…blossom…happen…I can’t think of a good word. Hang on. I need to go open a can of Because I Said So…
…Okay. Now with this in mind, let me get into the bath.
|That’s just the topsoil.|
First of all, baths are not about getting clean. If they were, you’d be doing a craptastic (pun intended) job of it since you’re essentially soaking in your own butt water. If you’re able to get clean from a bath, you’re either a cowboy or a small child. Two layers of grime is cleaner than ten. And that right there, is the theory of bathativity.
|Mind if we join you?|
Secondly, baths should not be a communal experience. I lock myself in the bathroom and plunge my head underwater so I can shut out the sights and sounds that are the glory of parenthood. No, you cannot come in. I installed the three deadbolts on the door for a reason.
|Your perkiness is not
appreciated here, ladies.
You can keep your saunas, your public bath houses, Roman baths, Asian tubs, and what have you. I ain’t playing that. Because that’s exactly what I don’t need… an interactive aspect added to a moment of solitary introspection. Just what someone with social anxiety needs.
Baths are a solo venture. To skew the caterwauling words of Ms. Dion for my own selfish intent, I “wanna be all by mysellllllffff.” No people, no noise, and no toys–of any nature–needed, if you know what I’m saying. Yeah, that’s what I thought. No rubber duckies.
|She’s clearly at peace. This is not me.|
Because the bath is where I do my best thinking. I don’t need a magical, inspirational place per say. Yes, the Grand Canyon is awe-inspiring, as is a finely crafted platter of makimono, equally as much as the flight patterns over my garden of two thousand Canadian geese coming north for the summer. Mind the goose bombs. I don’t need anything fancy like that. I simply need to shut out the chaos swirling around my ears. On a daily basis.
I just need to think, people. For the love of God, keep it down out there.