For Valentine’s Day this year, my husband served steaks and champagne and then, after dinner, we took a hot bubble bath together while he read to me. We hadn’t done this for a while, and it was perfect for a cold winter’s night. And very romantic.
Dave drew the bath to be exactly 104 degrees Fahrenheit. (He knew 104 was the right temperature because he had carefully measured the temperature with the kitchen probe thermometer when I had drawn a bath for myself previously. What I really want to know is why he didn’t use the infrared thermometer?)
Despite his careful preparation, the bath was waaay too hot for soaking. Dave added more cool water, and in so doing, raised the water level, and, with it, increased the height of the bath bubbles. We had to peer around the tower of suds to see each other. We talked as we sipped our after dinner drinks about love, sex, what we found interesting or endearing in each other and, because the conversation was so interesting, we never actually got to the short story Dave was going to read to me.
As we were talking, my nose itched. I rubbed my nose. The itching increased. I was mildly annoyed, but not willing to break the spell of the conversation. I didn’t spare any extra brain cells on the problem, I just rubbed my nose again. Man, something was really itching me now. I stopped talking and rubbed my nose again, now fully conscious that I had just rubbed a whole bunch of suds onto my face. I had forgotten that my hands and arms had been floating in about a foot of soapy bubbles and that those bubbles clung to my fingers and anything my fingers touched like airy barnacles. Dave pulled a towel from the shower door rack toward me without comment, and I wiped my face. We continued the conversation.
With my reptile brain, I recognized a tickly feeling on my nose again, so I rubbed at it. My mouth felt funny. Immediately I was aware that I had just given myself a suds mustache. Even my chin itched. Dave smiled and pulled the towel toward me again. I wiped my face and we continued talking.
I was completely enthralled, feeling once again how lucky I was to have a husband who loved me enough to tell me, and who really still found all my little quirks endearing. My love for him pounded loudly in my heart as I rode high on alcohol and romance. I was feeling good about myself, proud to be me, confident. I was smart, attractive, well-loved, and admired by the most important person in the world.
Then I rubbed my nose again. “Geez!” I exclaimed, jarred out of my romantic reverie once again. Did I really do it again? Dave, completely entertained now, laughed loudly as he pulled the towel toward me a third time. I glared resentfully at his smirking face.
Luckily, I was feeling well-loved at the time, quirks and all.