I hate my tub.
We have that giant tub in our rental in London. It’s stupid. Just try to fill it. Depending on your water pressure, it can take about an hour, and by the time you get in, the water’s cold.
Sometimes, in an act of blind confidence, I’ll get in as it’s filling, and then it’s my face and my boobs, floating above a sad puddle, having a conversation. I’m cold, and bored out of my mind before it even gets close to full.
Anyway. Let’s say you succeed in filling it. Let’s say it’s warm enough. You hop in there, ready for your blissful Instamoment. That’s when your realise that you’re drifting like an abandoned shoe in the ocean, with nowhere to grasp on to stabilise your motions.
Your legs are flapping aimlessly, your head is just trying to keep afloat. A big tub doesn't support any parts of your body. Now try to do anything with a loofah.
That’s a giant tub for you. Dumb.
I should have known. I used to have one in my dream house in Los Angeles and, okay, once I had gotten over my guilt (That is: never.)(That much less water for you, California!)(This lady needs to take a bath!) and mastered my floatation techniques, I have to concede that I had a few good times* in there.
Oh, you know the best part? Our tub in London. It’s too big. It has zero water pressure. And also, it’s custom made in some gorgeous slab of black stone. Which means that you can’t put salts, or any type of soap in it, because it will eat up at the stone.
What's the point?
*Not sex. Sex in tubs is a myth. Even the giant ones (I’m talking about the tub!). I know. I have tried (I said the tub!!) and it was quite overwhelming (THE TUB!!!).
Do you know what the sound tub means in French? Uhuhuh. Go ask a French person. Say “C’est quoi une “giant tub?". Don’t thank me, I'm just generous like that.