A Loco Viewpoint
Just Call me “Tubby”
To begin with, I would like to state categorically that I like women. A whole lot. Gobs and heaps, even. And power tools. And Maxxim Magazine. In fact I like most ‘regular guy’ stuff with the exception of hunting and fishing, other than hunting for bargains and fishing for change. I can’t see killing anything as being much fun, unless it’s a case of beer.
The reason I felt a need to clarify my interests is there’s something I enjoy so decidedly un-masculine, it might provide the casual reader with a completely erroneous view of me. In fact, on my Popeil Macho-Matic Mascu-Meter, this activity ranks so far down the manliness index, it is tied with Richard Simmons. It even gives “female impersonator” a run for its money.
The dirty truth is, I love to take long, hot, soaker baths. There’s something almost wickedly pleasurable about being submerged under scented bubbles (Axe scented, mind you. I told you I was manly.) Or at least as submerged as I can get. Sadly, our tub is an ancient, short, shallow model and my exposed skin resembles a tiny archipelago of little pink islands. I care not how it looks, however; at that moment, I am a light years away from bickering children and chore-minded spouses. (“Light years” being those that have less alcohol than regular years.)
I will admit I do feel a bit of guilt while I’m ensconced in my tiny, white lagoon. We are a one bathroom house and taking the facilities out of commission during prime time is not done lightly. Still, everyone in our house knows when I’m rub-a-dub-dubbing, I won’t get out for anything. I give lots of notice beforehand before I go in so there are no wails of “I have to go to the bathroom!” while I’m immersed in my happy place among the suds. Too bad. They can hold it or go down to the FasGas. They’ve been told.
Except Grandma, of course. I have to get out for her. She has to go every time, too, even if she has to drag herself out of a deep sleep to do it. Frankly, I think Cupcake shakes her awake just to bug me.
How do I know having a nice, long bubble bath is seen by society as an essentially female pastime? You can tell by the flavours of the bubble bath products available. They’re usually delicate aromas such as “Luxurious Lavender”, “Rose Petal Rain” and “English Country Garden”. In fact, Cupcake, says when I get out of the tub, I reek so bad of flowers and such, I smell like I’ve been to a bordello. How she knows what bordellos smell like, I can’t say for sure, but the fact remains these frilly fragrances are obviously meant for not just girls, but girlie-girls.
If bath goop had been designed for the male of the species, they would come up with scents like hickory, musk or Bullseye barbecue sauce. You would be able to buy Stetson bubble bath or CK Por Homme bubble bath. Unfortunately, this is not the case. We fellows are stuck with “Decadent Daffodil and “Spring Bouquet”. (Seriously, just how decadent can daffodils be?) Unfortunately, even vigorous showering after the bath, which is a must for rinsing off the dead skin cell and flower stew I’d been soaking in, isn’t enough to rid myself of the overpowering perfume.
Most of the time, I don’t bother with real bubble bath. Of course, to avoid leaving an unsightly bathtub ring, it is important to use some soapy stuff, but I find a healthy squirt of cheapee shampoo does the trick. Oh, I know that bargain shampoo lacks “moisturizers and emollients for soft, supple skin” like the bubble bath purveyors would probably point out, but that doesn’t bother me. After years of using shampoo in my bath, the only problem I have with my skin is there is too much of it and I don’t think I can blame that on my bathing habits. Maybe I shouldn’t use shampoo promising “extra body”.
One of favourite tub-time activity is reading. The bath is far superior to any other place in the house for literature consumption and the reason is simple. Cupcake doesn’t see reading as an actual activity for me, despite being an avid reader herself. When she sees me reading, her image is of me obviously sitting there, filling time, waiting for chores to be suggested. When I’m in the bath, however, it is clearly a case of out of sight, out of mind. The last thing she wants in her mind is the sight of my pink archipelago.
Another reason reading is so wonderful in the tub is that there isn’t much else to do. It’s not like I can operate electrical devices while I’m soaking, and doing the dishes in the tub is strictly forbidden. Even making toast is considered foolhardy. Alas, the only thing left to do is to delve into a great read. Shucks.
But one must be careful what kind of reading material to select. Due to the damp conditions, any book of value is out of the question. The same rule applies to borrowed books. Returning a copy of your pal’s favourite novel, which you had to wring out after dropping it into the drink, is rather embarrassing. It is much better to grab a magazine like the Reader’s Digest which is compact, entertaining and stands up better than Archie comics in the moist conditions.
So there you have it. I have come out of the bathroom closet. I don’t care who knows I bathe and if this activity is supposed to be for women, then I say, “Womanly, yes, but I like it, too”. Now pass me a Ladies Home Journal, I’m going for a bath.
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