Today, I took a bath. For most, that is not particularly newsworthy, but you must remember, I never leave the house. And no, I am not saying I took a bath instead of a shower. My descent into grunginess was gradual. I would like to say I was driven by an intense commitment to conservationism but I want you to know the real me. The more days I work at home, the lazier I get. I took the first step down that slippery slope when I stopped shaving my legs. Beware, ladies, beware.
Today was different though. I felt energized, and I could smell myself. I thought I would create a mini-spa experience; scented candles, rose oil, bath salts, my favorite loofah. My mistake was vocalizing my plan, "I am going to take a bath." Jackson beat me to the bathroom and started stripping down. I kicked him out but was now trapped in the bathroom with nothing. My actual experience was soaking in a tub of hot water with a washcloth Daphne slipped under the door and a bar of Irish Spring, while outside, Jackson had a meltdown of epic proportions.
He kicked the door. He hit the door. He slammed his body into the door. He screamed, begged and cried. He would not be distracted by candy or the opportunity to go outside. My bath was ruined.
I am a prisoner of his love.
So I did what I always do when I get a few minutes alone in the bathroom. I worked on my tunnel.
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