I fell asleep in the bathtub. 

We were in a hotel room in Singapore along Orchard Road. It was after a day of shopping and doctor’s appointments, a brief respite from the pulsating grittiness of Jakarta. As a reward, my parents took me to Kinokuniya bookstore and let me wander the bookshelves for hours. I came back with a stack of books as far as my little arms would reach and was met with a heavy sigh, “I guess.” as I skipped to the cashier. 

 My parents were watching TV in the main room and I was firmly ensconced in the bathtub with an extra hotel duvet as insulation, a couple of pillows from Room Service, and a stack of books that reached as high as the bathtub edge. I had a lock on the door. I didn’t have to share with anyone. No one was supposed to bother me. I was tearing through all 11 The Princess Diaries books at record speeds. 

I couldn’t have been happier. Thus, began my love story with bathtubs. 

Fifteen some odd years later, I take a bubble bath every day. It’s gotten to the point where good friends will DM me pretty pictures of bathrooms and bathtubs that scroll across their timelines or their toes sticking out of a bubble bath. It makes my heart feel warm and fuzzy. On the other hand, I regularly complain about not having my own clawfoot or soaking tub at my house. We all have to make sacrifices in life, and this one is mine. Baths are how I bring a bit of glamour and self care into my life. I have several buckets brimming with bath oils, soaps, scrubs, bath bombs, epsom salts and I recently just invested in six bottles of bubble bath and two different bathrobes.

Because I deserve nice things, damnit.

It feels like a small bit of well-earned daily indulgence. Occasionally I plan ahead and brings snacks with me too. Feed the senses. The sensual indulgence of eating an orange in the bathtub and not caring if the juice gets on your face is something everyone should experience for themselves. It’s oddly carceral and reminds you that you are alive and fruit is delicious. I am a bathtub evangelist. 

I believe there is more than one to take a bath. In Indonesia, Hair jamu and milk baths were common services. Jamu simply means medicine in Balinese and there is a Jamu for pretty much any ailment, complaint, necessity all of them made with only plants, herbs and nuts. Kindly, old Indonesian women with gnarled cinnamon hands would run their fingers through my hair and massage my head while quietly gossiping in Bahasa. Medicinal baths of oils and potions and whatever the jamu lady had in stock weren’t unheard of. The soothing act of a head massage or bergamot essential oil dripping in a tub of water with a bit of incense are fond childhood sense memories. Coconut. Turmeric. Ylang Ylang. Lemongrass. Honey. Cinnamon. All seemingly legitimate bath ingredients and perfectly reasonable alternatives to Mr. Bubblez and Dove soap. 

I learned from a young age that clean water wasn’t always a guarantee. In Jakarta, you had to run the taps for a while because the water first emerged in a thick, brown slurry before eventually it ran clear. It could be screaming hot, it could be tepid. It would just depend on the day and the temperament of your water tank. I lived in a compound and if you went too many days of brown water, it was okay to call the main office to complain. Eventually, they’d send a guy up, he couldn’t have been more than 17 to go and tinker with the plumbing. After that, our water would be great for a few weeks. This is when I learned how to plan ahead and curate my bath. There was preparations involved. I would hop on my purple bike and go to the community store to pick up some sour gummy worms and a can of Pocari Sweat. With my goods acquired, I’d race home to hurl myself in the bath with Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. I was going to get rest, respite, and quiet and I could read a book — all a girl could ever ask for. 

A bathtub is a rare treat. In Russian khrushchyovka-style apartments, steaming hot water comes out of the pipes as hot as the day is long. Public utilities were seen as a communist right of the worker, and ya gotta give them something if you’re not going to budge on democracy, LGBT rights, or freedom of speech. When I lived in Paris, I would fly home to Moscow for visits home during Christmas and Spring break and to see my favorite space: the tiny olive green bathtub. Flights to Moscow were always awful. I would have to fly Russia’s national airline: Aeroflot. The flight would be full of snooty French families vacationing in Moscow, as if that was something that sounded relaxing and positively hammered Moscovites. It was a 5 hour flight from Charles de Gaulle to Sheremetyevo airport. And throughout the 5+ hours, there was inevitably turbulence and grump Russian flight attendants plying enormous Russian men with vodka. Eventually, the grain alcohol would seep through their pores and combine with the stench of sweat of hundreds of people packed on a giant flying metal airtube in the sky. It reeked unquestionably of lunch meat. Upon arriving home Christmas break at Freshman year, my brother asked me, “Why do you smell like bologna?” I had to get in the bathtub. I would emerge bright red, soaking wet, petulant teenager finally satiated by a several hour-long soaking and holding a water-spattered book I meant to read on the plane. 

As much as I love and uplift baths and bathtime, I do recognize the parameters, politics, and privileges of such an activity. Not everyone has access to a bathtub. Clean water that won’t get you sick or turn brown is not a guarantee in large swaths of the country and certainly the world.

It’s worth remembering that it’s been over 5 years and 9 months since Flint has had clean water.

And baths are not activism. Taking a bath will not solve white supremacy, patriarchy, capitalism, ableism, homophobia or any of the violent, oppressive structures meant to rob us of hope of a brighter future. 

But from what I learned in the 2018 midterms, all of that stuff is a lot easier to take on when you’re feeling clean and smelling good. As a way to destress, I spent a lot of time in the bathtub because to quote the formidable Leslie Knope of Pawnee, Indiana Parks Department, “Everything hurts and I’m dying.” I was struggling at work with the constant crushing news cycle and being upset by all of the things I couldn’t control but was forced to reckon with during my work day — a school shooting, a Trump tweet, Kavanaugh’s nomination, families separated at the border, the daily assaults of this administration. And my body suffered because of the lack of balance. 

It was the North Korean nuclear summit and the lack of stretching at a pole dance class that I believe caused me to throw my back out. I worked for several days from a yoga mat in my office; my colleagues would frequently venture into my office to find me upside down on a yoga mat or typing email copy from a Downward Dog position. I needed relief and muscle relaxers weren’t an option. Enter: Kush Queens. 

Kush Queens THC/CBD bath bombs were a game changer. I picked one up at a local dispensary and tucked myself in for a long haul in the bathtub. It was a tough day at work. My body hurt. My brain hurt. I tucked myself in for the long haul in the bathtub with a deep conditioning treatment, epsom salts, a face mask, and an AWAKE bath bomb with my iPad propped on a basket. This was a revolutionary combination. My back felt so much better. After emerging from the bathtub, I exclaimed to my family, “I didn’t know I could feel this good. Did you know other people feel this way? Relaxed?!” Mind blowing to consider the possibility of not having to have a body composed of knots and tangles. 

Since then, I’ve invested heavily in bathtub accoutrement. I shamelessly follow several bathtub hashtags on Instagram. I’ve spent more money than I care to think about on Lush bath bombs and fresh face masks. Shoutout to Mask of Magnaminty and the Twilight bath bomb.

I preach the power of a bubble bath because you deserve nice, glamorous things and to feel a little bit better. 

Thus spaketh your bathtub evangelist. 

Let all of the good people say Amen. Continue soaking, my flock.