The
last time I took a bath, I played with my little green army guys. The tub, in
our suburban split level in Hillsdale, was a pinky beige, as I remember it.
Somewhere along the line of fifty years since, I gave up baths for showers. For
good. Until now at the Doris McCarthy house, where on my third day here after
four days on the road, I gave up my array of wipe-downs, lake dips, hose
frolics and sinkwashes and turned on the left hand spigot—hot!—of DM’s tiny tub
to sit down in there.
Haven’t
I seen movies in which characters lie full out under a blanket of suds? Here I
couldn’t even straighten my legs. 75% of my legmass extruded from the water
like some crude and ancient outcropping along lake Superior. And I heard a
Jerry Seinfeld voice say, Why would
anyone want to sit in a tepid pool of his own filth?
I’d
already pegged DM as a short woman who needn’t have ducked through doorways as
I have to do. (I’m going to insert a callback here to my note about the Picts,
from ’10.) She built her kitchen cupboards so low that I stash my Bran Flakes
on top of them.
But
I’m clean and, on a rainy morning like this, still warm. Here's the tub, actual size.
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