bath time and ice skating

I am officially a loser. I might’ve officially been a loser my whole life, but now it’s for certain.

My favourite part of the day is bath time.

I swear blind I am 25 not 4.
Bath time has usurped my previous habitual excitement of seeing my boyfriend and banging him senseless on different pieces of furniture. Even if we did the same thing the night before.

I start looking forward to my daily scrub at around 3:00pm. Pondering and dreaming aimlessly over which bubble bath to use (The Radox or the Dorothy Gray bath oil? Or bath salts? Fuck, the options are endless) and whether I’ll put on a face mask before or not. All while writing about, say, meatballs.

I throw my keys down, pause to rip my clothes off, and run myself a most sensationally hedonistic and loved-up bath fit for a princess. In a bathroom plastered in 70s babycrap-green tiles and a wilting shower curtain, even so. When my cell phone rings I answer it, nonchalantly placed besides the soap and hope I don’t drop it therein.

I sing to myself, blare the likes of Andrea Boccelli over my speakers (like yesterday), and go about my bathing regime like clockwork. It’s a regimented pattern: the shave, the exfoliation, the washing of private parts. Followed by a healthy lathering of creams, a pluck here and there and a wrinkle-check. Then I slip on my underwear and my pyjamas, and pour myself a glass of, like yesterday, Porcupine Ridge. This entire ritual takes me about two hours. And I enjoy every second of it, to the point where I’m starting to imagine doing the whole thing top-to-bottom twice a day.
I’m a bath addict; I’m a loser.

Is this what my days have come to? Well I suppose mum should be pleased I’m not a crack addict. And I’m not rushing home to look for spare light bulbs in a flurry of excitement instead.

On a brighter, and dare I say less loserville note, I went ice skating last night. At the Sandton Square Virgin rink set-up thingie. Last minute with my friend Ramone Allones and his cohorts. (After my bath. Meaning I have to bathe all over again, not that this poses an immediate problem). Shit, if I had all the money in the world, I’d build a giant bath tub…and my own ice rink. Small Bum at least taught me one thing: how to skate backwards. Like a professional-like. (OK OK, and how to play poker). After much frustration and a right ass-thumping after landing abruptly on the precariously and deceptively slippery ice, I managed to remember how to do it. What fun. Ramone learnt how to skate for the first time. He made some fans – or hysterical onlookers on the side – who thought his ice walking was something else. They took pictures and everything. Bless.