The Bath Person

I am a bath person.

I've taken drunk baths, stoned baths, sick baths, ocean baths, crying baths, lake baths, angry baths, river baths, sexy baths, and lots and lots of very uncomfortable baths when I'm in pain.

I've taken baths when I felt like my world was ending.

I've taken baths when I didn't know what else to do.

Post-lake bath in Okanagan BC, 2014

I've always loved baths.

I vividly recall sitting in the tub when I was just a bit too old to be pooping anywhere outside the toilet. The yellow of the bathroom tiles, or maybe the overhead light bulb, imbues this particular experience with sepia-toned nostalgia. I was probably six years old, and as I watched my turd float beside me, I knew I'd committed a heinous act never to be repeated.

It didn't turn me off of baths, though.

Generally, the choice between sitting in my own clean, fragrant bathtub, and having a shower is simple. Standing versus lying down. Horizontal wins.

I only became a devout bath person after my son was born. At first, it was for practical, physiological reasons. Post-partum is an exhausted-beyond words, sore, drippy, leaky time: perfect for soaking.

Then, I realized, it was a place to escape. Read books. Stare at a wall, waiting for something, anything, (preferably) nothing to happen next.

Showers are where I do my best thinking. I write songs, have epiphanies, and plan my future in the shower.

I have zero thoughts in the bath. My mind is pure zen. Immersion in warm water is the easiest shortcut to a meditative state. Easier than getting high. Easier than hauling ass into nature. Easier than yoga.

I’ve shot at least one music video in the bathtub.

There are many deal-breakers, though. I won't take baths in dirty tubs. That usually means any tubs other than my own. Very few folks are bath people. That means they don't meticulously clean the bottom of their shower receptacle, anticipating their next soak.

I do. And I've been known to scrub a motel tub for the express purpose of enjoying a bath after a long, late night.

Another deal breaker: when it's freezing in the bathroom. It might sound counter-intuitive, but cold air swirling around me as I bathe negates any benefits of the bath itself. Cross my heart. I don't want to shiver when I get out of the tub - though, being a bath person, I have done so hundreds of times.

I cherish the privilege of having access to hot, clean water, a tub to put it in, and a home in which to safely bathe.

Showers are utilitarian and cerebral. Baths, done right, are visceral bliss.