THE BATHTUB

Sunday morning. I’m trying to create more balance in my life. Trying to be happier, though I shun the word. Shun it because it feels like sticky putty – something you’re stuck in, as fake and brittle as botox. But I’m trying.

I sound not unlike a depressed person on the Dr. Oz show. I took a leisurely, though not hair-washing shower using glycerin soap. I decided to shave my armpits in case I wear that cute tight, stomach-popping shirt that my boyfriend just bought me. I didn’t shave my pubes. I’m not shaving it cause my boyfriend likes a little hair. That’s right, he likes hair and I like him. I’m pro less-maintenance.

I basked in the steamy hot water, the shower tub sparkled; clean as a whistle. The place was just cleaned by Delme, the South American cleaning lady they’ve used in their family for years. My boyfriend’s mother thanked me for letting her come and clean. Not because she thought we needed it, but because she couldn’t use Delme this week. Strange. I remember living alone praying to have someone come and clean my place – not having the $100 to pay for one – feeling that I was just so damn lazy.

I told my boyfriend that she didn’t have to go in my office to clean – clothes were still in garbage bags and thrown on the floor since my move one month ago, and the window sill held pictures of me naked from performance art pieces – not the type of things a middle-aged cleaning lady who reports to his mom should see. I did have the thought to tell my boyfriend to have her clean my office while driving to work – “She does everything,” he explained, “She’ll fold your clothes and fix up your closet.” I never knew a cleaning lady organizes.

We bought all natural cleaning supplies when I moved in. I can’t stand chemicals. I have my vices – the occasional drag of a cigarette and diet-coke, but the idea of using Windex or even makeup from department stores, makes me cringe. God, I sound entitled.

When I came home from work, I opened my office door, expecting to the see the only messy room in the apartment and all my clothes were completely folded. The floor was vacuumed and closet was organized. “Holy moly – she cleaned my room. I love it!” “I told her not to,” my boyfriend said, “That’s weird that she did that.” “No, I am so glad she did,” I exclaimed, examining the work that I would/could never do.

I let the water run over me – in my new shower, in my new apartment with my new boyfriend. I took the time, the time usually reserved for children, to find the steamy part of the glass hidden behind the other glass door that slides by it. There it was. I pressed my fingers and made a fingerprint and a sideways smiley face. I thought about youth and time and leisure. How I used to take night baths as a 10 year-old. My mother had moved out by then and my father was away. My sister seemed invisible. There I was alone, in our avocado bathtub, naked, young and clueless about time or space. I examined my self. My small vagina, short legs, tiny hands. I was alone in our big house. The fridge was full. The day and night were mine.

I’m sure I was bored, but for those moments I felt free.

I would fill the tub, a tub that hadn’t been cleaned since mom left almost two years prior. I’d let it get real warm, then when it was time to go, I clicked up the silver notch and let the water drain. I checked the pull of the drain by pressing my little fingers over the holes – feeling the sucking from the pipes. I sat there, sometimes like a dog on my knees with my butt up, sometimes lying as flat as I could – I felt the avocado porcelain tub fade from warm to cool to cold, as if I were a whale beached in a draining ocean. I slowly became exposed, cold, full of goose pumps as the water melted away from my body.

Sometimes I just laid there – the air cold and crisp, the tub still warm. I didn’t want to get out. My hands were wrinkled and I knew it was time, but I didn’t want to go to bed or be alone. I wanted to be wet and submerged.

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