Despising baths

 

In a recent Friends rerun it showed Monica and Chandler in a romantic bath.

I shuddered.

I've an almost pathological hatred of baths.

I can't blame is all on my brother. At seven and two my mother insisted on bathing us together. I liked it, playing with him with his rubber duckies or boats or other toys. Then he peed in the water. 

No missile launch went up faster then I did in getting out of the tub. Not given to tantrums, my mother gave in when I threw one NOT to have to get into a tub with him again.

We were late to get a shower in our house. We still had a claw-foot tub, but it seemed to me as I grew that I wasn't getting clean. Bits of fecal matter, probably microscopic from where I didn't wipe hard enough, minuscule drops of urine, juices from my vagina never mind dirt from just  living might leave my water than swim right back on to me. I began to wash under the faucet rather than fill the tub. Or I would use a washcloth (flannel for you Brits).

Then in my 50s, having friends who loved baths I wondered if  I was missing something. After all my brother was on a different continent, and even if were closer, no way would we take a bath together.

I decided to try it. I bought bubble bath, put on Enya, l lit candles and dimmed the lights. I sank into the water waiting to rekax.

One minute passed, two, three.

No relaxation, just images of gunk coming from my body into the water and reattaching itself to me.

I didn't remove myself missile-like like I did when I was seven. After all, I was older and could slip.

I pulled the plug and turned on the shower. The water doused two of the four candles. Enya soft notes blended with the sounds of the water. 

I haven't taken a bath since then. I can't imagine what it would take for me to have one, no amount of money, no promise of making all my books best sellers. Perhaps if it was a matter of life or death of a loved one, but that scenario is unlikely, making me safe from baths the rest of my life.