I am in a bathtub filled with unicorn pee.
Or strawberry Skittles vomit.
The water is pink.
Yesterday’s bath bomb experience—courtesy of a cross-country gift package sent by my bestie—left me off-gassing like I’d partied at a rave with pixies and fairies. Words I say so rarely that I first got stuck on fixies, then had to double back and wonder why I couldn’t summon the word fairies. Brain? You there?
The water is scalding—hot-tub, pull-your-toe-in-and-out-to-acclimate hot. I need it. Even in a 70-degree house, I’ve been wrapped in a thick, knitted blanket, still unable to shake the chill.
I’m usually quick with baths. Jump in. Heat up. Jump out. But this pink spa treatment—with its massaging scent, color, and strangely luxurious feel—forces me to linger. Yes, luxurious. I don’t know what those Lush bombs have in them, but there’s a light conditioner-meets-lotion quality that makes my skin slick and buttery. When I run my hand over my arm, it glides like a too-steep bunny hill toward eternity.
I’m out now—slightly dripping and burrowed into bed. However diluted the color, I wonder if my body will leave faint unicorn lipstick kisses all over our white sheets. Who cares, right? That’s tomorrow’s problem.
Last night, I rinsed off the soupy concoction in the shower. Tonight, I skipped that step. I blame my one-track mind—my body’s need for comfort running the show. The pink pony show, that is.
Here’s hoping it doesn’t leave me itchy.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 