I used to love taking baths. Where I last lived, there was one of those big bath tubs with the jets and all the bells and whistles but by the time the water traveled three floors to fill it up, it was cold. So after two or three tries, I didn’t bother anymore.
When I last lived by myself, taking a bath was almost a religious experience. Candles, dim lighting, music, wine, bubble bath. It was as soothing as anything I could do during the week.
I used to think it was really cool when a cowboy, a Clint Eastwood type, came off the trail, walked into a saloon, ordered a bottle of whiskey, and then asked about a bath and a shave. A bath never seemed more masculine.
I only take baths in hotels now. It doesn’t feel right. It’s a waste of water. More water than can nourish an impoverished family in the third world for a week. It’s hypocritical for me to pretend to be a responsible world citizen while luxuriating in tens of gallons of hot water.
I’ll always like baths. I also liked smoking. Some things you just have to give up.