My Bathtub

The Sargasso sea is the only body of water with no coastlines. And I can get there through the hole in my bathroom floor.

It is August first and there is a hole in my bathroom. I don’t have a toilet or a sink or a shower, just a clawfoot tub and a hole. Moving into my own place was supposed to be a fresh start, a chance at adulthood. But I have a hole in the bathroom floor and a gnawing sense of dread when I open my eyes in the morning.

It’s August first and the early morning air is laden with a thickness that I have not before witnessed. If I stepped outside, surely my glasses would fog and my hair would begin to frizz within minutes. It is August first and the year is escaping, as if through my desperately outstretched hands the time has seeped between cracks in my fingers. I am porcelain.

I should get my mail. But I will take a bath instead.

It’s a production. Off to the hallway closet for epsom salt. The cool darkness of enclosed space makes the salt cold against my flesh. Below the sink for baby oil, my cracked elbows and knees need the moisture. The vanity in the bedroom has my wide toothed plastic, pink comb that I have had for well over a decade but never ceases to brush through my relentless curls. Towels, the good towels, are meticulously stacked on top of the drier by color: blues and blacks at the bottom and pinks and oranges on top. There is one patterned towel that I am not sure what to do with. Today is a pink day. I grab the third towel in the teetering stack. With everything gathered in my arms, I softly shut the bathroom door as if someone would hear a slam, and get to work.

The towel goes on the floor, folded into thirds in the back left corner of the room. The comb goes on the towel. Baby oil and salt come with me towards the clawfoot tub in the center of the perfectly square bathroom.

I run the comb through my mane and count the strands that I lose today. 148. I don’t remember if that is more or less than yesterday but I scoop up the lost hairs and walk them into the kitchen just to throw them in the overflowing trash can that I know I have neglected for longer than is acceptable.

I never used to take baths but the bathtub was what sold me on my house. It is an elegant, white clawfoot tub with dainty yet sinister golden talon claws. The claw in the upper right corner is rusting slightly, as if it is tired of holding up the heavy cast iron bathtub.

I know that bathrooms like this one come with tireless upkeep and I know I will eventually fall behind. My hair will clog the drain, get stuck in between the pipes and I will no longer be able to bathe. Water will stop flowing from the shiny, gold taps and each claw will inevitably join the top right and rust. I will rust as well, and sink to the bottom of the ocean.

With my lost hairs mocking me from the lonely trash can, I bend down and begin undressing. I gingerly remove each polka-dotted sock, laying them side-by-side on the tiled floor. I shimmy out of my tattered pink and gray plaid pajama bottoms. My mother gets me a new pair each year for my birthday but the only ones that don’t make me crawl out of my skin are the ancient pink and gray pants. Carefully, so as not to further disturb the old fabric, I fold the pants and place them on the floor next to my socks.

I slip out of the plain black cotton underwear next, leaving them where they fall. I finally take off the white tank top. I turn the tap, almost expecting no water to come out, and breathe a sigh of relief when it gushes from the tap. Sitting cross legged on the icy tile, I watch as the bath greedily drinks from the shining taps. Steam rises from the center of the tub and I am in awe at the sheer excellence of it all. Slowly rising to my feet, I add one and one half cups of epsom salt to the hot liquid contained within the hard, iron walls of the tub.

Once the water arrives at the appropriate hotness, I brace myself against the edges of the tub and slowly submerge my body inch by inch. Once my body is fully in the water, the tub begins to transform. Today is painful.

Oftentimes, my baths don’t hurt. They are simply opportunities to transcend to another world, another reality. Today is different. Maybe it is the pink towel. Maybe my hair loss wasn’t satisfactory. The water feels cooler than it usually does.

My elbows sting with the sharp jab of nonexistent abrasions. My shoulders ache and my wrists are heavy, I can’t hold up my own head anymore. The bath begins to swirl. I can no longer see my legs attached to my body beneath the crystalline water. The sloshing liquid becomes opaque and I open my mouth to scream a silent plea that whatever happens next doesn’t hurt.

When I wake the next morning with my hair still damp from the previous day’s journey, the only thing I can think about is submerging myself in the bath. I close and open my eyes, twice, in a last ditch effort to re-awaken my senses to the normalcy that they should be craving. But there are no eggs in the fridge and there haven’t been in more weeks than I care to look back on.

Today is a blue day. My towel waits atop the drier.

I peel myself out of bed with an urgency that I didn’t know I possessed. I don’t walk past my mirror anymore. Instead, I take the long way around my bed, scooting over to the wrong side before planting my feet side-by-side on the ground and using my arms to push myself to stand. I wish someone would take my two hands and pull me up, splash cold water on my face, and force me to wake up but I am alone with my bathtub.