Have you ever been laying (or is it lying?) in a tepid sea salt bath in your tiny bathroom trying to have a transcendent moment of self actualization, meditating on the meaning of life, when you notice some black mold growing underneath your sliding shower door?
On a sort-of day off, I decided that I was going to do something different. I was going to have self-care, life-improving ME-time.
First, I grabbed some of my weights that I occasionally haphazardly throw around in an effort to feel like I still work out. (But I don’t.) They are fun-size weights, like the tiny, bite-size (apparently “fun”) candy you get on Halloween that is disappointing and unhelpful because it’s so small. I grab those and bring them to the bedroom, which is where I pretend to workout sometimes. I station my washed-up pull-up bar in the bathroom door. If you have one, you know how the placement works. If you don’t, I’m not going to bore you with how to do it.
Anyway, I position it up there and realize two of the hand grips are missing. I begin crawling on the hardwood floor to find them. Ow, my knees. I find them. I wrap what’s left of the handles on the the rickety bar. I start to hold on to the bar when I realize I’m still wearing polar bear pajama pants and a sweatshirt that you only wear once you’ve given up for the day.
I want to feel worky-outy so I dig into my dresser of unfolded pant items, and I pull on some old Umbro black leggings. They fit a little tighter than I remember. Also, does the Umbro brand still exist?
So I go back to the pull-up bar. I’m ready. I look like I thought about working out once. I attempt some leg lifts whilst holding onto the bar. But then my too-tight leggings make my stomach feel all gross and huge and now I feel like I’m not worthy enough to work out.
I toss my fun-size weights into the air, around my body and then to the ground, and I decide to take a sea salt bath.
I earned it, obviously.
Why do we call it “taking” a bath? Or to “draw” a bath… Why? Hold on..
Alright so, according to www.phrases.org.uk, one would say “draw” a bath because apparently “draw” also means “to lift,” and in the olden days you would have to draw/lift water from a well, lake, river, cistern, etc. and take it to your wash tub.
Wiktionary.com’s sentence example: “Never leave a child unattended while drawing them a bath.”
Noted.
In any case, I pull out the bag of sea salt I was never able to reseal after the day I opened it years ago, as there are always salt crystals stuck in the zip-lock bit. So my salt is a little damp but also crusty simultaneously. It ain’t what it used to be, which is similar to the state of the body that will be getting into this sea salt bath, so I figure it will work out.
I turn on the water. I never know how hot or warm to make it, as there’s basically no temperature that my sensitive, needy, angry, pale skin pairs well with.
So the water is running, I plop some blobs of Dead Sea salt into the bath. Yes, these salts traveled all the way from The Dead Sea to my humble abode in East Nashville.
While it’s filling, I decide to make myself a homemade face scrub to exfoliate my regrets and sorrows away. I grab a Kroger-brand bag of light brown sugar from the kitchen, and I begin trying to mix it with Manuka honey. (Google it. It’s a natural face scrub recipe. I didn’t make this up.) I try harder to mix, but it’s mostly just an uncooperative ball of brown. Well, I try to smear the brown ball onto my face, but blobs of it just fall into the sink, and my sink is too dirty to try to recover these blobs, so I have to write them off as a loss.
Lots of blobs in this section of the story.
Eventually, I pour some jojoba oil into the mix, and it sort of starts to rub onto my face. I might also be able to use this as an adhesive.
Really, this whole bit is uneventful. It’s on my face, and I realize I don’t want to leave it on my face while I’m in the bath because it will just start rolling down my face, plopping into the water. And nobody wants little brown blobs floating in their bath water, generally speaking. So I wash it off, harshly, because that’s the only way I know how to address a problem I created.
The bath has been drawn. And I didn’t even have to trot down to the well in my petticoat for this.
When I finally lower my ghostly white body into the lukewarm water (clearly, I did not choose the correct faucet position/temperature again), I let myself settle into the quiet. I try to think profound thoughts, send a prayer or some positive energy to myself and others, but I can’t keep my eyes closed comfortably because I still have some brown sugar paste in my eye lashes.
Then suddenly...
Out of nowhere…
I look down and realize I can see my entire body through the glassy sea salt haze.
I know. Horrifying. This is not what I want to be reminded of while trying to transcend reality and reorganize my priorities and feel good about the human I am.
Nevertheless.
I scrunch my face in disgust and close my eyes again... while realizing they may never open again due to the sugar glue still on my eyes. And that’s okay.
During this time, I’m also trying to find a pleasant position. The tub is too short for me to stretch out, and my stupid, godforsaken knobby knees keep bobbing out of the water like apples floating in a bacteria-laden bucket from a carnival in the 1920s. My feet can’t land a proper position and my neck and head can’t figure out where to be without sliding into the water. (Perhaps my body is subconsciously trying to drown itself). Not really though. That’s not funny.
Anyway.
I love the word: “anyway” or any variations of the adverb. (I think it’s an adverb.) “Anyway” can get you out of a mess, it can move the conversation along when Randy won’t stop talking about his new Peloton, or when Jessica keeps telling you about her new business that involves a face cream and pre-workout all-in-one, it can sweep right over that regrettable relationship, that job you were fired from or that night out that you don’t really remember but someone brings up.
Anyway, how about them apples, Randy.
I start to ponder how rather unnerving it is to lay naked in a small vessel of warm water by yourself. Not that I want anyone else with me. But I am steeping myself. I have created human tea. Or perhaps soup. Or broth, you might say, rather unsettlingly. I’ve created human broth. And the human is me. But I’m sure you’ve created your own broth at some point in your life as well. Perhaps you were a wee lad and you may have added some wee to the broth.
I’ll be selling this grass-fed broth (because I’m sort of vegan) for the low cost of $50 per ounce.
This is one of the grossest things I’ve ever typed.
Anywhos (similar to ‘anyway’ but more whimsical), while growing increasingly disturbed by the presence of myself, sliding further into the water, I spot a disconcerting amount of black mold along the undercarriage of my sliding glass door. I suppose any amount of mold is disconcerting though. And to note, I’m not sure of the anatomical parts of a glass door, so undercarriage may or may not be correct.
More importantly, what is the difference between REAL black mold, which is scary and dangerous (that I once obtained a doctors note for so that I could move out of black-mold-laden dorm room at Tennessee Tech University to another dorm room that surely had some other infestation) versus mold that’s just dark-colored but more casual and less detrimental to the health of my lungs?
Then I began to think of what a disgusting piece of human flesh I am. I can’t even bother to keep my poor shower door’s undercarriage in ship shape.
It was at this point I realized I’m not good at self care. I’m just not. I didn’t grow up that way. You ignore yourself and your needs until you are so broken, shattered, overwhelmed and perhaps deranged that there is nothing you can do but address yourself. Because no one else is going to address you at this point.
Anyway.
I hope your self-care is going as well as mine.
See you at the farmer’s market. I’ll be at the grass-fed stand.