A relaxing soak in the tub — that’s a thing normal people do with free time.
Without the stress of potential career collapse, for the first time in over a decade, I have free time. I’m glad, but if the past few weeks are any indication, I have absolutely no idea what to do with it (or myself).
I also have a bath tub. It’s beautiful — big enough for two, deep enough to drown in, with bubble jets, water jets, and a thermostat — but it’s completely wasted on me. I haven’t used it in well over a year, so it needed a thorough scrubbing to remove a year’s worth of dust, cobwebs, and whatever creepy crawlies that might have taken up residence in the plumbing. I cleaned every accessible surface, poured a healthy dose of liquid bleach into the intakes and returns, and scrubbed until it sparkled.
While it filled with scalding hot water, I rummaged around and found a floral smelling bath ball thing to toss in, (long ago, I learned that bubble bath + water jets = a very bad idea), and I eased into the water. During an episode of Louie (I am incapable of just sitting there), I struggled to find a balance between the hum and gurgle of the jets, the iPad volume, and the echo in the room. During the second episode, I engaged in brisk exfoliation with an extra gentle human sander loofah thingy. That felt productive, but I got out before the episode was over — I had nothing else to do and I dislike being still unless I’m doing something.
It’s been an hour since then and my skin still looks freshly scrubbed and pink in places. By “freshly scrubbed,” I mean excessively scrubbed. By “pink,” I mean irritated.
I’m thinking I should have run water through the system to flush out the bleach before I filled the tub. I didn’t think of that. Instead, I sat in a scalding hot, self-agitating mild bleach solution for almost an hour while I scrubbed my skin raw.
I do feel like a new woman… mostly because I burned off the outermost layer of the old one.
So fucking relaxing.