The Blog Carnie Takes a Bath

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.

 

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