I've had a bottle of bubble bath hanging in my tub for awhile now. I love a good bath but the tub has to be clean--really clean--if I'm going to lounge around in it. (And, well, there needs to be time in the day for such things.) Nothing has been known to make me nauseated faster than a stray hair wrapping itself around me while I'm supposed to be relaxing. And it's not that I don't clean my tub, it just seems that ours is the last bathroom to get cleaned, the one that always gets put on the back burner, because we're the only people who ever see it. So. Few baths. I'm generally okay with it.
Last night I was taking a shower and I glanced at the bottle of peach bubble bath, about 3/4 full. I always read the back of this particular bottle while I'm washing my hair because it has an ingredient that is 27 letters long. Methylchloroisothiazolinone. That's, like, all kinds of ridiculous right there. But last night I didn't focus on vocabulary. No. Last night I read the rest of the bottle.
Peach Foam Bath starts your day with a tantalizing stroll through a garden of beauty. A luxurious fragrance adds to the experience as extracts of Peach, Pineapple, and Honeysuckle, combined with Apricot Kernel emollients and cleansing properties of Primrose, leave your skin clean and healthy. Turn your morning into an escape.
I'm pretty sure my mouth actually fell open. Um. I'm most concerned that not once but twice we are directed to take this luxurious bath in the morning. My husband was in our bedroom and I read it to him finishing with, "Who are these women that have time to bathe in the morning?" He replied that they must be stay-at-home moms without children. "So, stay-at-home wives?" I questioned. And he snickered.
I've only got two kids and, trust me, there is no time for a tantalizing stroll through a garden of beauty. There are smashed bananas and spilled cereal and poop that smears onto my leg because the baby's diaper leaked. There are three toy bins dumped into one giant pile and milk spit down the front of a previously clean onesie. There's the realization that every room--not just the bathroom--looks like a bomb was detonated. There's the little one hitting the bigger one and the bigger one screaming at the top of his lungs at the littler one and then laughter ringing out as they both decide to let bygones be bygones. There's hair gel and toothpaste and, "Don't touch the straightener! You're burn yourself!" There's dog food--in Matthew's mouth--and Garrett on a counter top trying to get his own cup down because he's a big boy. A tantalizing stroll through a garden--hardly.
So who writes this stuff? Moms who can only wish that there aren't any stray hairs taking up residence in their bathtubs? Business women who wake up at four in order to squeeze in their morning escape? I don't know anyone--unless, maybe, she is retired--who has time to turn her morning into an escape.
And, quite frankly, when all I want is a luxurious bath and I actually have the time--and, well, a clean tub--I'm not sure I want it compared to a tantalizing stroll through a garden of beauty. A sumptuous soak in the warm waters of Peach, Pineapple and Honeysuckle instead of being hit by the errant spray of a four-year-old's urine is really all I need.