As readers and writers of romance, we’re all aware of how reality often doesn’t live up to fantasy. I have found this is never more true than when we’re talking about baths. Heidi’s husband Dan talked about this once, and I tossed in my two cents. But this morning, as I lay scrunched up in my tub wishing somebody would bring me breakfast, I found myself thinking about it more.
All too often, TV shows and movies show us this image of a woman luxuriating in a tub. She’s surrounded by candles, holding a glass of wine, possibly reading. Her hair is dry and lovely, her makeup unsmudged, and all of her lady-bits are tactfully covered by bubbles.
You know. This image:
It’s about as far from reality as we can get, and all I could think was, “It’s time to debunk this bullshit!”
Let’s start with all those damn candles. Either somebody had to light them for her, or she lit them AFTER she was in the tub. Otherwise, it means she climbed nude over open flames, and let’s face it, that’s a damn stupid thing to do. In reality, by the time you finish lighting all those candles, your water is cold, your bubbles are gone, your toes are pruny, your wine glass is empty, and you have to pee.
Of course, all that assumes you’re one of those lucky people with a giant bathtub. I don’t have one of those. My baths look more like this:
I can either submerge my body (minus the buoyant bits) and have my legs sticking up the wall, or I can have my legs in the water and the rest of me shivering against the side of the tub. Instead of candlelight and wine, I have cat hair and (if I’m lucky) a can of Sprite. At least in this house, I have my own tub. Before we moved, my baths looked like this:
What does this have to do with my books? Not a god damn thing. But man, the next time I see some goddess reclining in a luxurious sea of bubbles and rose petals, I just might have to shank a bitch.