_ (05/10/2010) Last night, I was called a freak. It was not the first time I have done something to inspire that label, but this time I really don’t think it was merited. However, I will let you decide.
But, first, a little background. I love being in the bathtub. I never take showers, always baths. I know some people consider this just splashing around in your own filth, but I firmly disagree. Though, as I mentioned, I have from time to time been called a weirdo or the equivalent, I have never been accused of stinking, except this one time by my friend Clifford but there were extenuating circumstances of the Timothy Leary variety.
Anyway, I don’t only like the bathtub for bathing. I like it, sans water, for sleeping, thinking, and escaping from bad parties. Throughout the years, I have been known to, on several occasions, disappear from a party only to be found lounging in the host's tub which I have lined with towels or robes or whatever fluffy fabric item I can procure. Sometimes, if it has been a particularly rowdy fiesta, I retreat to the tub to nap. But often, I just go there to hang out and chat in a more intimate setting with whoever happens by…of course, sooner or later, everyone happens by. So we have established that I like to bathe and I like to socialize while in the bathtub, so it only logically follows that I would like to socialize while taking a bath. It is a rite of passage amongst my friends to have to hang out with me while I bathe and keep me company. I take to the tub with a cocktail, they pull in a chair, and we chat while I wash away the stresses of the day. I never thought this was remotely strange until recently.
The new man in my life arrived to find me damp and in my underwear visiting with one of my girlfriends who was dry and fully clothed. He couldn’t help but inquire about the situation. The conversation went something like this:
“Did K catch you just getting out of the shower?”
“No, she’s been here awhile. I just made her talk to me while I took a bath.”
“From outside the door?”
“No, inside…duh. The dogs were there too. And, Angus.”
“So, she watched you take a bath?”
“No, she didn’t watch me. That sounds creepy. She just talked to me while I bathed. I make all my friends do it. I get bored.”
“Seriously? You make all your friends talk to you in the tub?”
“Yes. R has done it, and K, and G, and S, and even J, and he has a breast phobia.”
He looked momentarily perplexed. Then, the quizzical expression was replaced with one of obvious concern, and then disgust.
“That’s weird. You’re a freak.”
“Yeah, but I’m your freak.”
He did not look comforted.
So, the verdict is out and you, my friends, are judge and jury. Does preferring to have Happy Hour in the tub make me a weirdo?
(07/20/2012) Now, I spend every weekend in what is essentially a giant bathtub called Herrington Lake where I float nearly naked, cocktail in hand, and socialize with friends and strangers alike without anybody calling me a freak. To be honest, aside from the slivers of fabric over my lady bits, I don’t see how it is that much different than the above scenario, but it is totally acceptable. What a confusing society we live in.
the bourbonistA, Promoting Debauchery and stamping out political-correctness one blog at a time.