Bathtime

I found a delightful, and rather strange book recently, full of recipes for…baths? The author contends that regular old bath water will not do. Instead, she insists that we must fill our tubs with intoxicating concoctions of such ingredients as flower petals, homemade bathbombs, orange slices, whole mint leaves, bags of tea, and almond milk. I have not tested this assertion, but the photographs in this book do make the endeavour appear very tempting. The author offers recipes and instructions for relaxing baths, invigorating baths, ones for meditation, ones for dry skin, and even hand and foot baths for, you know…hands and feet. Each of these recipes come along with music playlist recommendations and recipes for flavoured water or tea (to drink) that are meant to accompany the bather.

I am not, generally speaking, wild about baths. In this week’s episode, we touch briefly on how Victorians got clean, and how they did wash but did not bath, and frankly, that system of a standing wash would suit me right down to the ground - or washtub. I know some folks are all about long, langourous soaks in tubs, but I find baths boring and ineffective for getting clean. As a child, my mother had to sing “Keep the water in the bathtub” to the tune of the Battle Hymn of the Republic to encourage me not to splash, which I think is a good indication that bathtime is only enjoyable when toys and violence are involved. Ernie and Rubber Duckie seem to like baths a great deal, but at the end of the day, they’re not for me. I find that you get into the tub, all ready to have your cares and worries melt away in the hot water - and within a few moments, you begin to feel a strange kinship with a boiled egg or a pot of soup. You can’t read without risking a sopping wet book - I avoid using my phone in the bathroom for similar reasons. I could put music on, but then I’d feel like serenaded soup. There is nothing to do in a bath. My frazzled brain becomes frantic, not relaxed, when faced with half an hour of sitting in water that grows steadily colder. I took an epsom salt bath for sore muscles a while ago, and my cat looked aghast at me, perched in the window, obviously terrified and perplexed about why I would choose to drown myself so calmly. Our old beagle, who has gone on to the Great Sofa in the Sky, had to get baths once in a while, and bore them with a kind of pathetic, long-suffering patience, staring up at me dolefully as if to say “why must you torment me so?” Frankly, I am inclined to agree with the wisdom of the beasts. Mostly, when I have gotten into a bathtub, I am waiting for it to be acceptable for me to get back out again.

This bath book though - wow, just reading it is very soothing. I may never put lemon slices and roses in my bathtub, but I am definitely a fan of reading about them. This is perhaps not dissimilar to my experience of watching Angela Lansbury’s 1989 exercise video “Positive Moves,” which is full of gentle stretching movements, peach onesies, and questionable midi piano music. I love watching that video. Have I ever done the little stretches, or rolled around on the floor a la Angela, on her pristine, rose-patterned rug? No, dear reader, I have not. But there is something deeply soothing about the fuzzy film quality and Angela’s cheerful voiceover about drinking tea and cycling or eating tofu ice cream for dessert. If you haven’t seen it, I beseech you to seek it out (it is available to watch online) and enjoy what feels like a time capsule and the beginnings of influencer culture. “Positive Moves” and the bath book both have a sort of dreamy quality, rather detached from reality. Where is this incredible bathroom, full of fruits and teas and herbs, and what is this life wherein I can dedicate half of my grocery list to bathtime decorations, and then promptly scrape all that organic matter off the bottom of my tub and deposit it directly in the compost? I can tell you one thing for certain, dear reader - it is not my life.

“Positive Moves” ends with Angela floating in a bathtub absolutely brimming with bubbles - luxurious and modesty-preserving! She certainly seems to be enjoying herself, floating around in an Olympic-sized bathtub, with French doors that lead onto a garden beyond her, and soft, glowing candles flickering on every horizontal surface. I long for the day when someone publishes an in-depth analysis of “Postive Moves”, and possibly the bath book also, so that perhaps, I can finally understand what it is about them that I find so fascinating. And maybe by then I will have relaxed enough to be able to enjoy a bath. It seems unlikely, but one can dream.

Jennifer