Shudda, cudda, wudda
January 28, 2007 | 12:00am
For as long as I can remember, the one thing that I wanted the most was a bathtub. My mother had a nice one, complete with marble steps and water jets. She lined her bathtub with bath oils, every kind of skin exfoliant, moisturizers in crystal jars, and made sure her dogs were nearby when she took her bath.
No matter what kind of day she had, her hour in the tub was her refuge from the cruel world. She locked her bathroom door, allowing only her dogs to come in.
I wanted that old-fashioned sort of luxury. Bath bubbles, long minutes and silence… well, except it my case, I’d have a CD player nearby playing Billie Holiday (bad mood) or Astrud Gilberto or some Starbucks compilation (good mood). After 25 years of showering, I finally got my very own bathtub when I moved into my new apartment. I prepared for my new toy. I bought bath bombs at Lush, soaking gels from Laura Mercier, and kitschy bath confetti from the supermarket. I bought five rubber duckies and lots of Starbucks compilations hoping for many happy days.
Two years later, I still haven’t used my bathtub. The bath bombs have disintegrated into lumpy powder, the bath confetti has gathered mildew, and Laura M. is feeling extremely neglected.
What happened?
Like every worker bee of the millennium, I have perfected the art of procrastination. On any stressful day, I would fantasize soaking in my tub when I got home. I usually ended up doing happy hour at a dive instead. A big occasion usually has an hour of soaking on the agenda. Instead I’d be running around the mall looking for some pantyhose or shoes to go with my outfit.
Don’t get me wrong. I live a pretty good life. I eat fast-food on good china and with silverware, burn my candles and dip my fingers in the melted wax during my time-outs, and as therapy, I put my dogs in ridiculous outfits. I realized I needed to slow down when a five-year-old kid asked me why I ate so fast. I explained that my dad was in military school and I had to keep up with him during meals. The kid just looked at me like I was crazy. The truth is, I eat fast because I am always in a hurry for nothing. I fall asleep during yoga class, text my boyfriend his Valentine’s greeting, and buy birthday and Christmas presents in bulk. Where’s the real pleasure in all this? I used to write three-page notes to friends, just because. I used to personalize every present I gave. I used to even make my own Valentine’s cards. I’m now, as I realized last year, a robot.
I’ve taken baby steps in living a life filled with languid pleasure. I took French cooking classes where it took half a day to make broth. I loved the idea of being there. Of course, when reality set in, I was more Rachael Ray than Alain Ducasse. I tried to host a dinner party once and, being again distracted by text messages, CNN and phoned-in gossip, the food ended up at best as rodent bait. I ended up having my trusty gourmet KFC as food for my guests, and being the ever gracious hostess, corn on the cob for the vegetarians.
I fantasized that maybe I just have ADD, that the dilution of the quality of my life had a medical reason. I had pretty strong convictions about it. Just like how I knew the exact moment my ex-boyfriend cheated on me, and how I just knew that the cargo and heels look would be a regrettable trend despite Kylie promoting it. I was sure it must be ADD. True to form, I have been planning to take the test and to have myself sorted out once and for all. Once again, plagued by more Sturm und Drang, it’s been a year since. No test and more fantasies of having ADD.
The only thing I find that has the power to anchor me is bad TV. I actually realized I might have ADD after watching an episode of Desperate Housewives, when Lynette functioned on Ritalin. I mean the meds even rhyme with my name. It’s in the stars that we met.
So, OK, I finally took that bubble bath. After two years of foreplay and 25 years of yearning, it was like every hyped-up experience – a dud. I stayed in the tub for less than 10 minutes. While "relaxing" in my very expensive honey-scented water, I figured I had to check my e-mail. I quickly ran out and checked, and wondered whatever happened to my Friendster account from years ago. I ended up checking that. After an hour of checking everything, including an entry for diamonds on Wikipedia, my bath water had gone cold.
So much for simple pleasures, and my damp robe welcomed a cold later that evening. I realize the problem is really not ADD. Modern times call for modern measures. I mean, just look at our furniture. It will tell you all about the time we all live in. The aquiline, cold and uninviting Mark Newson chairs or Zaha Hadid chaise lounges that define modern design are all about style and nothing about comfort. Look at the embracing Eames chairs and you’ll know that in the middle of last century people nestled.
Maybe that’s why mid-century furniture is so back: to remind us to slow down. And we don’t need to take little blue pills that rhyme with Celine to be functioning human beings living good lives. If there’s one thing I learned recently is that we don’t own our time. One day, I’ll realize while negotiating my way to heaven, that I still haven’t taken a proper bath.
That will be, in so many ways, very sad.
No matter what kind of day she had, her hour in the tub was her refuge from the cruel world. She locked her bathroom door, allowing only her dogs to come in.
I wanted that old-fashioned sort of luxury. Bath bubbles, long minutes and silence… well, except it my case, I’d have a CD player nearby playing Billie Holiday (bad mood) or Astrud Gilberto or some Starbucks compilation (good mood). After 25 years of showering, I finally got my very own bathtub when I moved into my new apartment. I prepared for my new toy. I bought bath bombs at Lush, soaking gels from Laura Mercier, and kitschy bath confetti from the supermarket. I bought five rubber duckies and lots of Starbucks compilations hoping for many happy days.
Two years later, I still haven’t used my bathtub. The bath bombs have disintegrated into lumpy powder, the bath confetti has gathered mildew, and Laura M. is feeling extremely neglected.
What happened?
Like every worker bee of the millennium, I have perfected the art of procrastination. On any stressful day, I would fantasize soaking in my tub when I got home. I usually ended up doing happy hour at a dive instead. A big occasion usually has an hour of soaking on the agenda. Instead I’d be running around the mall looking for some pantyhose or shoes to go with my outfit.
Don’t get me wrong. I live a pretty good life. I eat fast-food on good china and with silverware, burn my candles and dip my fingers in the melted wax during my time-outs, and as therapy, I put my dogs in ridiculous outfits. I realized I needed to slow down when a five-year-old kid asked me why I ate so fast. I explained that my dad was in military school and I had to keep up with him during meals. The kid just looked at me like I was crazy. The truth is, I eat fast because I am always in a hurry for nothing. I fall asleep during yoga class, text my boyfriend his Valentine’s greeting, and buy birthday and Christmas presents in bulk. Where’s the real pleasure in all this? I used to write three-page notes to friends, just because. I used to personalize every present I gave. I used to even make my own Valentine’s cards. I’m now, as I realized last year, a robot.
I’ve taken baby steps in living a life filled with languid pleasure. I took French cooking classes where it took half a day to make broth. I loved the idea of being there. Of course, when reality set in, I was more Rachael Ray than Alain Ducasse. I tried to host a dinner party once and, being again distracted by text messages, CNN and phoned-in gossip, the food ended up at best as rodent bait. I ended up having my trusty gourmet KFC as food for my guests, and being the ever gracious hostess, corn on the cob for the vegetarians.
I fantasized that maybe I just have ADD, that the dilution of the quality of my life had a medical reason. I had pretty strong convictions about it. Just like how I knew the exact moment my ex-boyfriend cheated on me, and how I just knew that the cargo and heels look would be a regrettable trend despite Kylie promoting it. I was sure it must be ADD. True to form, I have been planning to take the test and to have myself sorted out once and for all. Once again, plagued by more Sturm und Drang, it’s been a year since. No test and more fantasies of having ADD.
The only thing I find that has the power to anchor me is bad TV. I actually realized I might have ADD after watching an episode of Desperate Housewives, when Lynette functioned on Ritalin. I mean the meds even rhyme with my name. It’s in the stars that we met.
So, OK, I finally took that bubble bath. After two years of foreplay and 25 years of yearning, it was like every hyped-up experience – a dud. I stayed in the tub for less than 10 minutes. While "relaxing" in my very expensive honey-scented water, I figured I had to check my e-mail. I quickly ran out and checked, and wondered whatever happened to my Friendster account from years ago. I ended up checking that. After an hour of checking everything, including an entry for diamonds on Wikipedia, my bath water had gone cold.
So much for simple pleasures, and my damp robe welcomed a cold later that evening. I realize the problem is really not ADD. Modern times call for modern measures. I mean, just look at our furniture. It will tell you all about the time we all live in. The aquiline, cold and uninviting Mark Newson chairs or Zaha Hadid chaise lounges that define modern design are all about style and nothing about comfort. Look at the embracing Eames chairs and you’ll know that in the middle of last century people nestled.
Maybe that’s why mid-century furniture is so back: to remind us to slow down. And we don’t need to take little blue pills that rhyme with Celine to be functioning human beings living good lives. If there’s one thing I learned recently is that we don’t own our time. One day, I’ll realize while negotiating my way to heaven, that I still haven’t taken a proper bath.
That will be, in so many ways, very sad.
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