Originally published in The Clifton Courier, May 10, 2017

I am conflicted about the merits of a bath.

Yes they’re good for you and are supposedly relaxing, but the concept is also yucky. And I’m not very good at relaxing.

To a normal person a bath is a luxury. To a chronic overthinker like myself, a shower seems to be a more efficient way of cleaning oneself.

When baths are concerned, the human body is like a giant teabag. Except instead of infusing the water with the soothing essence of green tea and jasmine, you’re leaching out dead skin cells and the pollution your pores soaked up during the day. And once all this grime seeps into the water, you spend a good 20 minutes soaking in it.

Not cute.

But I have the eczema, which wages war on my left hand and turns it into an itchy, flaky, oozing mess. I try my best not to scratch it, but I find myself scratching in my sleep. This is a problem, because when you scratch the affected area it seeps out this sweaty gunk, which is really unappealing. And sometimes things get stuck to this gluey excretion. Which is even more unappealing.*

* I told this to a colleague once, and he actually dry retched. Thankfully I had already won him over as a lifelong friend, but I can’t say if he respects me in any way. But I don’t think a relationship built on office sassery and the tendency to drink leftover wine from strangers’ tables at work awards nights needs that much respect to begin with. We get each other, you know? Even if I do disgust him from time to time.

I’m not telling you this to gross you out (although I think I would have well and truly achieved that goal). I promise it is relevant to the bath concept.

Because I have recently discovered the amazing healing powers of a bicarbonate soda soak. It stops the itching. It even minimised my wart (wow, I’m really not selling myself here). I can’t speak highly enough of bicarbonate soda. And if any bi-carb soda reps are reading, yes, I would be open to promoting your product.*

* Seriously, I can’t ever seeing myself being the target of a sponsored post. I mean, I’d love to be influential enough to be sent a free box of Doughnut Time selections but I’m just not good enough with my lipliner to pull that off. Plus, the only flatlays I’ve done on my Instagram account have been heavily Queenslander themed, which apparently doesn’t make me a high-value influencer to brands. 

Therefore, I have a choice. It’s either soak in my own filth or cop the shame of getting tissues stuck to the pus on my hand and live with the constant itching (and unfortunately having a relentlessly itchy palm has nothing to do with receiving money, despite the promising superstitions).

So I chose the bath option. Even though I have ranted against it before. Even though sitting in a tub for 20 minutes means I’m alone with my own thoughts for 20 minutes – which is as antagonising as you would imagine.

So I endeavoured to find a way to make it bearable, even enjoyable. And the trick was drinking tea while soaking.

For some reason it felt decadent; like I was doing something forbidden.

I don’t know if this is because I couldn’t do this back home without being ridiculed or because tea is my ultimate indulgence.

I treat tea the way most people treat wine. While my housemate in Armidale would come home from work and have a glass of sauv blanc to take the edge off, I would make a very strong cup of tea after a particularly stressful day. Except while she would sip her wine quietly, I would let out a sexually suggestive groan and repeatedly say “geeeeeez I love tea” in a voice that had much more grunt than my usual speaking voice.

Now in Sydney, I make my new housemate think I’m really cool by giggling devilishly as I flick the kettle on for the second time that night, saying, “oh I might just have one more”.

So I made myself a cuppa to dull down the overthinking while in the tub.

And being completely starkers, floating around in warm water with a comforting tea in hand almost felt like being back in the womb again (not that I remember too much about the experience).* I emerged from the tub relaxed, rejuvenated and itch-free.

* Just to clarify, I didn’t sip the tea through an umbilical chord drinking straw nor was it filter through a placenta – just in case you sickos were taking my foetal simile too literally. 

With one cup of tea, a bath turned into a treat.

And meditating on the tea bag in the tub gave me an excellent metaphor for the giant human dead skin infuser to use in my column.

My feelings about baths may be lukewarm, but a cup of tea will always be my… cup of tea. *

* That’s right Dannielle, finish strong with a play on words. Go out with a bang. You’re just like Carrie fucking Bradshaw you clever, clever shrew.