Okay, I’m at that point in my flu when I’m too well to sleep, but still too sick to do anything productive, and reading has given me a headache. So I decided to do what women on TV and in chick lit novels do when they’re feeling crappy: I took a bath.
I even lit a candle. But unlike on TV and in chick lit novels, I didn’t fill the tub with bubble bath so that no non-PG parts showed. There were a few specks of cat litter in the tub, kicked up from the litter box nearby, which, if I sat in the front half of the tub, I could smell. Also, I discovered that because my bathroom is just barely the width of a regular-sized tub, there was no little ledge on which to comfortably rest my head.
This was all news to me because I’d never taken a bath at my apartment in the just-over-a-year I’ve lived here. Arguably, I don’t relax enough. But my rebuttal to that argument would be, yes, I do, but when I relax, I relax so much that drawing a bath (don’t you love that phrase?) is too much work.
I lay in my short tub and watched my cat Temecula walk along the rim. She dipped in a paw and shook it out and was like, What is this? You’ve never done this before. It’s kind of interesting, yet…wet.
I lay in my short tub and wished that my boobs were this buoyant when not literally being buoyed by water. I thought about prairie times, when everyone bathed in the same water on Saturday night and only on Saturday night, and I felt grateful for my short tub.