Picture this: It’s Saturday night and for the first time in recent memory, I’m not supposed to be doing anything. In a moment of self-indulgence, I decide that I’m going to take a bubble bath. Simple, elegant, relaxing. What could go wrong?
I should have known better.
First some things you need to know about me, in case you didn’t:
- I am 5’10”.
- I am fairly *ahem* well-endowed.
- I like to take *really* hot showers.
I’m sorry if this borders on the indelicate, I’ll try to be as euphemistic as possible, but there is only so much that can be done. This is, after all, the story of a bubble bath.
I gather my supplies, pin up my hair, fill the bath, and light some candles. Bubbles abound as I dip one foot gingerly into the sudsy water. Which is hot. So hot. Bubbling magma hot. I-think-a-layer-of-skin-spontaneously-peeled-off hot.
Apparently, a cascade of scalding water isn’t quite the same as braising yourself in it. Immediately, I turn on the coldest water to even out the temperature. The tub, however, has a specific volume, which means some of the liquid fire needs to go to make room for the iceberg I’m trying to introduce. The stopper is a button at the base of the tub, which means I have to reach into the flame to press it. Deep breath, plunge in, there goes another layer of skin.
Finally, after much testing, swishing, mixing, and shed layers of dermis, the water approaches something reasonable. I step in tentatively and lower myself down, ready to relax.
I now had two more issues:
- My legs don’t really fit into this tub.
- One word: buoyancy.
I think I stayed in the water about 10 minutes before I finally gave up. So much for relaxation.