A considered appraisal on 'Why baths are SHIT'

I have, of course, the greatest respect for Sylvia Plath. Anyone obsessed with death, alienation and self-destruction has to earn my vote. BUT I have to say - Sylvia, you got in completely wrong in believing,

“There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.”

On the contrary, there are few things in my mind that are not worsened by taking a bath.

It all started when I moved into my current abode.
Until then, like the rest of my kin, I was a confirmed shower girl. For me, the second best part of staying in a hotel is the mammoth jet-stream power showers I get to play in.

It was thus with great remorse that I took my first shower in my first home-owned property to discover I had a system built in the seventies and never subsequently updated. The large showerhead that had caught my eye upon viewing the property belied the meek trickle of water it produced.

As I have already expressed within this blog, mornings are not the best part of my day; I have also expressed the daily trauma of temperature change occurring when decamping from my bed. A trauma for a sleepy, cold, naked body that can only be exacerbated by a urinating showerhead. In the very first day under that shower head, I made my decision.

The shower is out, the bath must come in.

And so it was.... my daily cleansing routine became thus:

Morning wake up call. Stumble out of bed. Put on warm clothing. Stomp to bathroom. Stick head over bath. Wash hair with pissy showerhead.
WORK.
Finish work. Arrive home. Do random stuff. Get in bath. hate bath. Fume in bath. Get increasingly irate in bath. Get out of bath seething. Stomp downstairs.

So why the anger?

Well, for me a simple bath is simply a half hour of hot boredom. For those who think a bath is meditative, I pose this scenario as the pure, 'asthetic' bath experience:

You sit in it. It's hot. The steam rises. It makes you sweat. You have nothing to do. You look at a wall. You wait. Your skin starts wrinkling. You wait. You stare at the wall. You notice the grouting needs redoing. You wait some more. You stare at another wall. You stare at the ceiling. You sigh. You count to one hundred. You get out.

This is the 'pure' bath experience and I can't stand it. It bores the shit out of me quite frankly.

And so, to alleviate my boredom, I transform the bathroom each night into a ghetto of activity. I spend a full thrity minutes preparing the battleground.

First: Large glass of wine (must be very cold to counteract the heat of the water)
Second: Book. For obvious reasons - diversion.
Third: Thesaurus. Often the thesaurus is the book choice itself, I only ever read a thesaurus in the bath for some reason, but in any event, it is required in case I come across a word in a book I don't know.
Fourth: Candles. These are optional. The option is - do I feel arsed locating and lighting them.
Fifth. Music. Again - a diversion and mood enhancer. Again, the music is optional depending on if I can be arsed setting up the extension lead.
Fifth: Blackberry.Facebook I mostly check this every ten minutes in between pages.
Sixth: Phone.

So, the bath is full, the accoutrements in place. I get in. I jump out immediately and swear.

I've never yet figured out if it's just me or if everyone finds that the part of their anatomy most sensitive to heat is the leg below the knee. This is certainly the case for me for whilst the rest of my body can happily accept a warm bath, whenever I step in it, my legs go bright red and I feel my skin begin to melt away.

It is a problem. I obviously can't dive in. I can't suspend myself from the ceiling so all parts of the body barr the highly-strung lower legs don't get wounded. I have no choice but to grit my teeth and literally SCREAM as my legs enter the water and wait until they calm the hell down and accustom to the temperature. As I say, my back is fine, my arse is fine, my arms, head, stomach and every other part of my body is A-OK with the water. It's just the lowe legs. WHY????? I just DON'T get it.

So. A couple of minutes pass. I realise it's too hot. I'm sweating, I hate sweating, it's unseemly. I empty some of the bath and refill it with cold.
I realise I'm now too cold.
I add hot. The hot creeps from one side of the bath so my bum is cold and my feet are being scorched again.
I add cold. I add hot.

This farce goes on for about a good five minutes until I give up....usually on the side of too cold.

Accepting the temperature will provide me no joy, I turn to my trusty book.But hang on,I have got my hands wet, I need to turn the page. I can't as this will defile a page.

Inevitably, the only prop I do not have is a towel. So now I have to reluctantly get out of the bath, dripping water everywhere as I go in search of a towel.

I find one. I traipse back to the bath. I get back in, dry hands and turn page.

I get ready to relax. Do I relax lying down or relax sat up? I never know whether to sit in sitting position with book in front or lie back with book above face. Latter is more relaxing but wets hair, former keeps hair dry but not relaxing.

I swop between both, uncertain, curtailing my 'relaxation' to five minutes spurts. Somehow my hand gets wet again and I need to turn the page. Bring back the towel.

And so it goes on.

Twenty five minutes later I stand, light-headed from the heat and slop onto the floor. I face a good ten minutes of putting things back in their place and allowing my skin to return to it's happt temperature before seeking the solace of a cool bed to lie on whilst I try to recover my zen.