As spring break drew ever closer, a dark, dreary prospect loomed ahead of me. What I’m referring to is not my failure to get my shit together and plan an unforgettable road trip with my homies to, say, the Grand Canyon or wine country. No, what I’m alluding to is the fact that upon returning to my childhood residence I would be forced to take baths for a solid week. Let me repeat—I would have to take baths for a week straight.
Ponder this for a moment: When was the last time you took a bath not because you needed to relax with a glass of red wine in hand and lavender-scented candles strewn along the edges, but because you quite literally had no other means to cleanse your body? Probably not since about age four, am I right? What you think of as a luxurious way to unwind after a stressful day is how I attempt to scrub the sweat and grime off my body after a mid-afternoon run.
Let me lay out a scenario for you: You decide to go for, say, a five mile run. It’s a balmy summer afternoon with the humidity level at about 83 percent (after all, we do live in Wisconsin). Naturally, you’re sweating your balls off by the end of your workout and are in dire need of a thorough washing. Rather than stepping into a refreshing shower, in which the layer of sweat just slides right down the drain, you get to step into a tub and quite literally sit in your own filth. Let me tell you, it feels pretty damn rejuvenating to use sullied bath water to wash off your sweaty body. Betchya I smell real good after leavin’ that tub.
That, my friends, is only a small piece of the puzzle. Ever taken a cold shower? I can concur that those are horrific experiences, particularly in the middle of January in the Midwest. However, imagine for a second submerging your body into an icy cold bath. Come laundry day, there is virtually no chance of having luke-warm water, let alone hot water, for your daily soak, and when I say icy cold I’m talkin’ Jack and Rose diving off the Titanic into the Atlantic Ocean cold (I couldn’t resist the reference considering its recent re-release in 3-D). Starting to agree baths aren’t so relaxing after all?
If I haven’t sufficiently convinced you of the deplorable nature of taking tubs, let me illuminate another common plight of growing up without a shower. Picture this: You’re a family of five with one (yes, one) bathtub, and each and every one of you needs to take a dip before embarking for work and/or school. Essentially, each one of you needs to be bathed and ready to go by 8 a.m. An impossible feat? Not entirely, but it does require one to wake up significantly earlier in order to be ready on time and not end up last in the lineup. You do, after all, need to run the water first before jumpin’ in—no just turning the dial and hoppin’ in like all of you 21st century shower-owning bastards. And you can bet your bottom dollar that the last three suckers who got in line for the tub are going to have luke-warm water at best and water so cold your nipples could cut glass at worst.
I could quite easily continue carping about the insufferable nature of baths, but for now, I will cease after leaving you with one more point for consideration. One of the many alluring advantages of showers over baths is that various visitors of said shower do not leave scores of unwanted hairs clinging to the bottom and sides of the shower—they tend to slip down the drain along with the showeree’s grunge. This, however, is not the case with baths. This would not be such a paramount issue if bathers (namely, men) realized how utterly repellent it is to find dark hairs that they “forgot” to clean out adorning the tub. I sometimes wonder how it is they even have any hair left on their bodies after witnessing the amount left in what used to be a white tub.
Alas, taking tubs is the foremost reason I dread venturing home. As a child, my mother used to have to threaten to take away my Nintendo-64 and Nickelodeon privileges before I’d step foot in that damn tub, teeming with leftover filth and hair. When times were tough and no hot water was in sight for at least the rest of the day, we most certainly resorted to heating water in a little teapot on the stove. No, we never shared bath water—I draw the line there. But fillin’ up that tub one teapot at a time sure as shit diminishes the whole “relaxing” aspect of taking a tub. You lucky folks who grew up with a shower should count your blessings—living like Laura Ingalls Wilder is no walk in the park.
Did you live in a home straight out of the 1800s as a chitlen as well? Share your horror stories of taking tubs with Rebecca at alt2@dailycardinal.com.
