Along the Trail: Bath

The Victoria Standard - - Commentary - CHUCK THOMP­SON

It was one of those “you had to be there” mo­ments. It may not have bor­dered on the un­be­liev­able, but still, it de­fied logic, or at least com­mon sense.

It has been a re­mark­able fall with warm, sunny days, but there is still an un­mis­tak­able nip in the air some days. I had been out root­ing in the yard, get­ting our prop­erty ready for win­ter. Com­bine that with a lin­ger­ing cold, and I was chilled to the bone.

Af­ter do­ing my yard chores, I de­cided a bath might just be the ticket. I am not big on baths, pre­fer­ring show­ers in­stead, but a slow, warm, lin­ger­ing bath looked like just the thing needed to com­bat the sore bones and stuffed up head. So, with great an­tic­i­pa­tion, I drew a warm, sudsy, comfy bath and slid in for what should have been a pleas­ant ex­pe­ri­ence. Ex­cept it wasn’t.

As I bobbed in the tub, I reached for the sham­poo to give my few re­main­ing fol­li­cles a scrub and do it be­fore the wa­ter got too soapy. I rubbed the sham­poo in my hair and gave ev­ery­thing a good go­ing over. Need­less to say, it is not a time-con­sum­ing ex­er­cise any­more, but I do it any­way.

Mis­sion ac­com­plished, I slid un­der the wa­ter to rinse the hair. Sud­denly, all hell broke loose. Just as I dis­ap­peared un­der the wa­ter, I felt a sharp, strong blow to my face. My lip be­gan to bleed and I felt I had just been hit by the old Mike Tyson. How do you in­jure your­self tak­ing a bath? It hurt and blood was now stain­ing the for­mer clean bath wa­ter. I was stunned and could not fig­ure out what had hap­pened. Noth­ing made sense, even in my mad cap world.

It was then that I no­ticed the bright green top of the sham­poo bot­tle peek­ing out from un­der the soapy wa­ter. It ap­pears I had not prop­erly re­placed the of­fend­ing ob­ject and it had slid off the high shelf and ca­reened down, strik­ing me on my now fat lower lip. I hadn’t had this fat a lip since I had gone a few rounds with my next door neigh­bour when I lived in North Syd­ney. I can still re­mem­ber him walk­ing up the street with a mean look­ing dude and when I chal­lenged him (him be­ing the key), he asked “which one?”

“Doesn’t mat­ter to me,” I bravely an­swered. As it turned out, it did mat­ter. A lot, ac­tu­ally.

It hap­pened the sec­ond dude was re­cently re­leased from Dorch­ester and was harder than a fire hy­drant. I went down for the count and learned more than one les­son in this en­counter, the least of which was to pick on some­one your own size. When chal­lenged “which one”, make sure you pick the right guy.

Well the bath ended up nearly as badly. I got a fat, puffy lip which stung like heck when the soap hit it. Any sem­blance of plea­sure had been erased for­ever.

I’m back in the shower now, rea­son­ing that I have less chance of hurt­ing my­self. Even with an oc­ca­sional way­ward bar of soap un­der­foot, they are still bet­ter odds than a bath. And no chance of a fat lip.

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