Last week, I had my first bath in over a decade.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEK.

Why so traumatized, you ask?  Because, this, my friends, was not a good bath, with bubbles up to your neck and your favourite Ernie-and-Bert-inspired Rubber Duckie.

No, no, no.

Rubber Duckies - one large with a small one on its back

There was no lovely book or glass of wine (although I’m really not coordinated enough for any of that kind of nonsense).

Nope.

Not even the sort of lovely BAWTH that one of my favourite literary characters, Eloise, likes to take.

No sirree.

This was the kind of bath that your mother tells you to take.

Or rather, MY mother.

Because, I’m in my 40s, dontcha know.

You’re never too old for a little vintage, motherly, health advice.

Or, for a bath.

“With oatmeal”, she said.

“Or baking soda”, she said.

“Maybe some Epsom salts”, she said.

Possibly a cocktail of all of the above.

Yessiree, I am officially a geezer.

No Bath and Body Works jams and jellies for me.

I get to bathe with breakfast cereals and baking products.

I’m like Wilford Brimley, with hair.

This was the kind of bath you take because you have been itchy for nearly a month FOR NO GOOD REASON.

And, all the icky sticky goo and chanting of OM doesn’t make it stop.

OMMMMMMM…I’m so itchy!

And not only that but, this was the kind of BAWTH where you had to decide which third of your body to dunk in the water at a time, on account of, you are possibly eleventeen feet tall and your tub is a shallow, five-foot long, jetted, vintage relic from the late 1980s.

It was a complex dance of toes-ankles-calves for a while and then knees-thighs-abdomen for another while and then chest-shoulders-neck for an encore.

Slip sliding away.   It’s not as exciting as it sounds in the song.

Who, among the regular old, pre-every-bathroom-must-be-a-spa-thing-that-we-seem-to-have-going-on-now, bathtub owners, finds this fun?

You must be blessed with some short-ness, is all I can figure.  Me and my eleven-teen feet of tall-ness are jealous.

Anyhoo, this was the kind of bath where Practical Man had to set a timer in order to get me to stay in there for 20 minutes, because someone–possibly me–kept yelling, “Can I get out YET?” approximately every 32 seconds.

I am a delight to go through life with, as you can tell.

This was the kind of bath where, when I scrunched down so my shoulders could get a little of the water action–and my toes were creeping ever so elegantly up the wall towards the shower head–I was exactly eye level with the toilet.

Lovvvvvely.

As my friend Pippi has said, “Bathing beside the toilet is not my idea of luxury.”

Toilets figure prominently in 5-star resort brochures, I’m sure.

Um, yes and this was more of a long-term-care facility kind of bath.

With a little Nessum Dorma that Practical Man piped in, to help me stay put for the requisite time limit.

Nessum Dorma is the key to life, really.

Honestly, just close your eyes and listen.  You don’t need to be in a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad bathtub for it to be magic.

But, after a million-zillion torturous hours, when I was finally allowed to get out, I was victorious.

I had a few hives.

Tra-la-la.

Nearly a month of scratching and complaining about invisible sensations and I finally had something to show for my efforts.

I’m a little Type A that way.

Stay with me.  The hives mean that maybe, possibly, I’m not imagining the itching–just having some kind of allergic reaction.

To what, I don’t know.

New vitamins?

Pickled eggs?

Or maybe…don’t you think…it might be…Nessum Dorma beside the toilet?

The basic treatment for hives is, YOU WILL NEVER GUESS:

Take a bath.

Or as I and Eloise prefer it:  BAWTH.

With oatmeal.

Or baking soda.

Possibly some Epsom salts.

So says The Google.

And my mom.

Can I get out yet?

Me in a pink clawfoot tub, holding my book, "Career Cupid" - 2009

Yep, that’s me in a pink claw foot bathtub, in our driveway, circa 2009. The things I’ll do for book promotion.

 

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