There’s nothing less relaxing than forcing yourself to relax.

I just got out of the bath after some friends sent me bath products in the mail to celebrate my birth. It was thoughtful gift, because apparently baths are tranquil, relaxing habits of women who do shit like run businesses while training for marathons and cultivating orchids. Successful women take time for themselves, and prolonging the washing ritual is one way to do that. After being pestered for evidence I had used the gifts, I finally succumbed to peer pressure and immerse myself in the depths of relaxation, or so I thought.

Now before you point out the obvious, I am aware that soaking in the tub is like sitting in a gently simmering oversized saucepan of dead skin cell soup. That hot water that is supposed to clean your skin merely extracts the grime lodged in your pores and creates floaties of filth that speckle the liquid like a teabag that has had its side split and leaves spill out. Sure, you use soap and everything, but everything you scrub off your body just becomes part of the ooze you’re floating around in. It’s not all that hygienic, when you think about it. So I showered off my stank before I filled up the tub, hoping this would be sufficient in preventing the creation of a salty broth infused with my juices.

Once clean, I filled up the tub and tossed in this grenade of colour and scents and confusing crackling sounds. The bathroom has this annoying feature which means you can’t have the light on without the exhaust fan blaring. I live in a rental so obviously cannot be trusted to use the fan when necessary, which means if I didn’t want to be laying in the dark, I’d be catching a cold from all the air blowing around. It wasn’t ideal but I also overcame that relaxation hurdle, carefully stringing fairy lights up in a way which would prevent them from falling into the water and electrocuting me, thus saving some poor soul from having to scape my wrinkled, water-logged body out of the tub some weeks later. I was almost ready to go when a thought struck me: the problem with baths is that there’s not a whole lot to do once you’re in the tub.

You’re just sitting left sitting in there in water all exposed with your own thoughts and a mess bun. After the candles are lit and the bath bombs fizzle off, you’re supposed to just sit there and relax. But you can’t really relax because the only thing for you to do is think. You can’t fall asleep because you’ll drown/be pulled to a watery death after a bath demon with grey, withered skin appears the second you close your eyes. You have to stay conscious at all times for the purposes of staying alive, which leaves you in the soul company of your own mind. Sure, this can lead to some calming mediation but it can also lead you down the path of picking apart every single decision that led you to dunking your body in green water on a Friday night instead of doing something fun, like drinking shots out of glasses duct taped to a ski with your friends.

And that can be a dangerous thing. So I did what I always do when I want to forget about the blunders of my past: distract myself with carbs and fantasy. I brought into the bath room with me some diversions in the form of the thickest Harry Potter book ever created and the second autobiography of television writer who now has her own show in the hope I could gleam some of her success by laying down and reading things instead of getting off my arse and being proactive about my future. I also plated up some avocado toast (surprisingly, even though my location has some of the highest fuel prices you’ll see on this side of the Equator the great avocado price hike hasn’t stuck my local supermarket so I am lapping it up while it lasts. Although, I’d pay almost anything for an avocado – I mean I wouldn’t sell a sibling, but if I had an iron-clad guarantee the flesh would be just right, I’d seriously consider trading in a cousin or something.) for good measure I even boiled the kettle and brewed a fantastic cup of tea, which was made even better by the cutesy mug that was included in my birthday care package.

So, with ample activities, a steady supply of food and the appropriate lighting, I was ready to unwind. The air was steamy, which multiple women’s magazines would tell you is the optimum atmosphere for melting the stress away. I was prepared to sink in the water and be reborn as a zen, chilled out goddess of calm like baptism-cum-lobotomy.

For the first five minutes everything went according to plan. The water was warm and smelled like a lolly shop. Somehow, the bath bomb made the water feel slipperier and my skin slimy, but in a sensuous way, not like an old fish. Unfortunately, there was one last snag in the line to serenity. In my bid to make this experience the most luxe of all, I used only the hottest water to fill the tub. What started as a warm embrace suddenly turned into a smothering crush. After about 20 minutes sweat began pouring down my neck to the point that it practically raised the water level. I could feel my brain cooking in my skull, like I was some kind of overdone human boiled egg.

I tumbled out of the tub threw on a robe (to hide my shame should I die, with the hope that I would look like a glamorous 40s film star overcome by tragedy instead of a half-cooked bogan who go into a bar fight in a dressing gown) and staggered to my room. It was a tumultuous journey, but I made it to the bedroom and passed out under the fan. My head was throbbing, the room was spinning and I could feel my heart beating out of my armpits. It wasn’t glamorous and it wasn’t soothing. I could feel my flesh cooking and my skin felt like it had a greasy film from not properly towelling off. I was supposed to come out of this experience feeling like a silken goddess, instead I felt like a barbecue chook. And there is nothing relaxing about feeling like a juicy lump of poultry, regardless of how well-seasoned it may be.