Soaked in Bleach
There are aspects of farm living (in this house in particular) that don’t exactly follow the path of modern conveniences. For instance we still do not have a shower, only a claw foot tub for baths. None of the doors have doorknobs. We are lacking drinkable water that will bring me to the most hardcore hardship that unfolded this past week.
Wednesday morning when I immersed myself in the bathtub I said to Tom, “It smells like bleach water.” Tom said, “Good. It should. I shocked the well so we have water to drink.” At that moment I knew I was screwed.
There was no turning back. I had to finish bathing and washing my hair – bleach or no bleach. Of course this could only happen days after dying my hair. Red. I tried, God bless my heart, I tried.
But once I got to work the smell of bleach permeated my olfactory system to a sickening volume. Tom said I smelled clean. The top of my head felt like cement. And my skin was as dry and crackled as an elephant’s. It was all I could do just to get through the day.
Then days later (bathless/showerless) a Minnesota blizzard took place on my scalp. Chunks.of.white.flakes.falling.upon.my.shoulders. Something had to be done. Fortunately I have a gym membership.
Here’s where I’m going to save you some money – try the bleach bathwater diet. When you finally have access to a hot shower there is no longer a need for a fancy spa treatment. Deprive yourself to the point of sheer desperation – allow your razor the opportunity to ask if you’ve been running feral for three months. Or has it been four?
Today I am clean and look forward to my next trip to the gym. See, I’m also providing fitness tips here. Or at least the opportunity to say you made it to the gym. Nobody has to know it was only for the shower.