29 January 2017

Sunday morning

29 January 2017

— the hushed anticipatory air that awaits the first snowflakes

Good Morning All,

Occasionally, I agree with those simplistic dichotomies about humanity. Such as dog people and cat people. Pepsi people and Coke people. Pepsi people and straight gin people. People who hate Brussels sprouts and people who pretend to like Brussels sprouts.  Colossal knuckleheads on the one hand and you and me and precious few others on the other. Such as either-you-are-for-us or you-are-asking-for-a belt-upside-your-head.

     And not least, shower-stall people and bath-tub people. I’m absolutely a bath-tub person. Growing up in Arlington, my brother David and I competed for who could take the longest bath. He usually won. I might come out with prune fingertips, but he looked like the last Civil War survivor.

     Unfortunately, Denmark suffers from severe bathtub deprivation. Until our move to Clover Lane 4, I had no access to a proper bathtub in over five years ... well, with the exception of one on display at the Bauhaus, a Home-Depot-type store. Johs and Holly lured me to get into it, "just to see what it was like”. So, there I was all nicely nestled in, looking about as debonair as it is possible to be while lounging fully clothed in a bathtub. I was leisurely reading a brochure and allowing that it was pretty comfortable. (Please see attached.)

     What I could not understand was why my two grown children were leaning against each other as though in danger of collapse without mutual support. It was also odd they had to take deep breaths before they could hold their iPhones steady enough to snap pictures. 

     This situation appreciably worsened during my first several attempts to extricate myself from the tub. Unfortunately, bathtubs have become far more narrow and a lot shorter than when I was fifteen. It was, I hasten to say, not simply that I looked like a nicely packaged beached whale. It was also that my legs were too long for me to get them in under myself. Nor did it help there was no conveniently located toilet cistern which might have afforded me useful leverage. I recall muttering to myself something about there never being a forklift around when you need one.

     And the kids of course were no help. By then they were prostrate, holding their sides, kicking at the linoleum, and appealing to me to hurry up before they entirely ran out of oxygen.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, our new house has a bathtub! I took my first bath yesterday! Superb. Hot water up to my nostrils. Read two chapters in my Sarah Paratsky crimmy. Dozed a bit. Added some more hot water. Read and dozed a bit more. Two hours' worth. Then, nicely wrinkled, I emerged, which took fewer than fifteen minutes once I figured out how to flop over and back out.

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron