I recently took a bath for the first time in the small bathroom of an apartment where I’ve lived for five years. That’s a long time to neglect such a simple pleasure.
As I lay there, all warm, rubbery and relaxed, I started thinking about why. Practically, there was no stopper for the tub. I always showered. The fix could not have been easier. I bought one for six dollars at the hardware store down the street, while there for other things. That night, at long last, I took the plunge.
A friend I’ve known for years gets up early enough to take a bath every morning before work. This has always seemed fantastically indulgent and, frankly, a waste of time.
recently took a bath for the first time in the small bathroom of an apartment where I’ve lived for five years. That’s a long time to neglect such a simple pleasure.
As I lay there, all warm, rubbery and relaxed, I started thinking about why. Practically, there was no stopper for the tub. I always showered. The fix could not have been easier. I bought one for six dollars at the hardware store down the street, while there for other things. That night, at long last, I took the plunge.
A friend I’ve known for years gets up early enough to take a bath every morning before work. This has always seemed fantastically indulgent and, frankly, a waste of time.
With my body submerged in water the other night, I also reflected on her ritual. Maybe it really could be a pleasant way to start the day. Certainly more bucolic than running around the apartment, mug of coffee in hand, using caffeine as fuel to get out the door or open my laptop and get to work with ever-quicker speed.
At the least, filling a bathtub requires a modicum of patience. And being enveloped by water has a way of making you present. It grounds you — no pun intended.