An Ode

to a hot bath.

It's Saturday night, and like any Saturday night when I'm not going out, I'm heading upstairs to draw as hot a bath as I possibly can stand and spending the next hour reading and falling asleep in the tub. It's practically a ritual. I like my baths so hot that they are painful to step into. As the water gets cold, I let it out and draw more hot water. I know it's wasteful, but I can't help myself.

And I'll stay in the bath for at least an hour. I never wash. Baths have nothing to do with getting clean. That's what showers are for. Baths are for relaxing, normally with a glass of wine and a good book. Tonight I'm reading Oscar Wilde. I'll read for a while until the book gets heavy and then I set it on the side and let myself fall asleep. Sadly I don't have a deep enough tub where I have to worry about drowning. I can sleep peacefully in the tub and never have my face come in contact with the water.

I get my love of baths from my dad. He would regularly head for the tub after a hard day with a book and a glass of scotch. He never drank except for the bath tub. Jeff never takes baths. My mother hates them. But I can't live without them. If I go for too many weeks without my hot water fix I start to get irritable. I consider it one of my greatest indulgences. And the water is calling my name. Time for relaxation time.