Guilty Pleasures: The Bath

by Kerry Schafer

In my somewhat twisted psyche, if it's a pleasure, there's probably guilt attached. If I was playing Apples to Apples or hanging out on a therapist's couch doing word associations, it would be a total no brainer. Pleasure. Guilt. The two are irrevocably intertwined.

I blame my strict religious upbringing, but in reality this may not be fair. My brother, who grew up in the same social climate, doesn't appear to suffer from the same overactive conscience problem. Seriously - when I was a little kid I used to tell on my self. A lot. Punishment was easier than the guilt. Meanwhile my older brother would go quietly about his business, never getting in trouble because my parents never knew what he was up to. Which, admittedly, wasn't much, and my many sins, huge in my eyes, weren't much to speak of either.

Enough with the preamble, let's take a look at the pleasures. And they are pleasurable, make no doubt about that. Who was it that said "stolen kisses are sweetest?" They knew what they were talking about.

This week at Word Whore Central we have covered books and video games and TV, so I'm not even going to get into that. And I'm not going to talk about sex, either - although I do find it interesting that a whole phalanx of self proclaimed word whores seems to have avoided the subject. Maybe none of us have any guilt attached to this particular pleasure.

I do feel guilt about alcoholic beverages, bacon, chocolate, coffee, and the expensive little cartons of designer ice cream that I buy and hide in the freezer, away from the greedy eyes of other family members.

But I think I'm going to talk about the big one: Hot Baths. I'm guessing that, unless you also are a Master Level Guilt Practitioner, such as myself, you're going to stare blankly and ask, "where's the guilt in a hot bath?"

Oh, grasshopper, there are so many possible ways.

For starters, I live in a one bathroom house with four people. Somebody inevitably needs the bathroom the minute I'm in the tub - in the same way that the cat must instantly make a new deposit when I've cleaned the catbox. This isn't really a big problem, though, because they are all men and we live in the country. No neighbors. They can go outside. Still, I've been admonished by the Viking about being kind to the septic system, and that four daily showers and laundry place a burden on the poor thing. Really. You don't want your septic system to feel overworked and go on strike.

There's more. Thoughts wander through my mind, even as I blissfully soak, about the shortage of fresh water other places in the world, of people who might feel lucky just to get a sponge bath. Sometimes I picture the underground water system which our well taps into, slowly draining away. I have even experienced fictional guilt, pondering the price of water in Dune.

Of course, one sin breeds another. A hot bath is never complete without the company of a good book. And the trouble with a good book in the bath is that there is always the potential for water damage. Such is my addiction with the bath and book combo, that I have read some of my antique books in the bathtub. I have risked my Kindle, and, although I hate to admit it, I have even taken books I've borrowed from others with me into the tub.

I know. Shocking.

But I can't resist the lure of the hot bath. The pleasurable burn of the water, so hot it makes me gasp as I sink into it. The liquid comfort soaking into tight muscles, the way the body relaxes. Combined with the pleasure of a good read?

Right. I'm locking the door now. Go away and leave me alone.