Sunday, May 23, 2010
I love bathtubs. Bathtubs, and bubbles, and getting into water that's too hot for comfort, and getting used to it and then making it even hotter, and soaking with a book until the water cools down and I half-drain the tub and add still more hot water. I've loved them all my life, as many, many damp books can attest.
When we bought our house, it had a lovely old-fashioned white cast iron tub with claw feet. We intended to remodel the bathroom, turning one medium-sized space into two tiny ones. That bathtub didn't want to fit into "tiny", and the holes for the faucets were in the wrong place, and measurements and drawings repeatedly hit the roadblock of The Bathtub. And Himself assured me that if I would give up that tub to some good home somewhere, he'd happily buy me the finest of replacements.
So Himself turned his determination, instead, to making the tub fit. Drawings were redrawn and doors were shuffled and the faucet holes were plugged and a lovely plumbing monstrosity was arranged to fill the tub from above, and the tub spent a few remodeling weeks out in the side yard until it finally returned in glory to precisely where it belonged.
My bathtub. I suspect that I spend more time reading there than I do at my desk or on the couch.
Naturally I have many bath potions, but generally I fill it with blazing hot water, "cranky baby" bubble bath (California Baby Tired & Cranky), and Elizabeth W Rose bath oil - so far the one rose, in the one context, that gets past my doubtful response to rose perfumes. The combined scent is permanently associated with bubbles and turning pages with damp fingers, and there's not much that can beat that.
Image: By Muu-karhu. Wikimedia Commons.