l i l e p h y t e

March 16th, 22:44 | Thoughts from the tub

My baths are getting shorter; I think this is a good thing. (If any of you are thinking it's a good thing because it means I'm becoming less of a diva, think again. As I mellow in my age -- like moonshine in a still -- I find that certain of my divaesque qualities are crystallizing, cementing themselves forever into my temperament. I'm hoping this will assist me in my transformation (you know, once I'm Really Old) into a sassy old dame.) The shorter -- not significantly shorter, mind you, but shorter nonetheless -- baths are good because I think it means that I need less of a retreat these days to relax.

The bath, apart from being warm and steamy, is my Fortress Of Solitude. And even though my bathroom door doesn't have a lock on it, it is impenetrable, this fortress. My parents have long learned not to try talking to me once the tap starts, if people call, they get the somewhat cryptic message that "She's In The Bath. No idea how long it'll be." I don't have a set length of time for baths. I'll usually start one around 9 or 10pm and just soak until I feel ready. Thus, I think it's a good sign that it's taking shorter baths for me to feel "ready".

Part of it was my day. I had the whole house to myself today, and spent a goodly part of it belting out tunes at the top of my lungs. (Everyone needs some alone-time, but I'm pretty sure I'm in a small minority of people who need alone-time when there's also no one else around so they can sing loudly, badly, and completely un-self-consciously.) Part of it, however, is also that I'm feeling a lot more grounded in my head (if that makes any sense) in general. I don't need as much hermit-time in the bath, because I don't have as much mental filing to sort through, as it were.

Then again, maybe I'm full of crap. After all, according to my "test" results, I'm an Inventor-type. This comes as something of a shock to me, let me tell you. While it's true that I like daydreaming about things, and imagining all sorts of situations, and how I'd deal with them, I wouldn't say that I'm particularly able to apply that to function. My penchant for comfort-driven shopping and discussions hypothetical aside, I'm really not very good at figuring out how shit works at all, let alone adapting it to some new purpose. Maybe I'm wrong, though, and should give it a shot. After all, it's not like the internet would be wrong, is it?

In other news, I'm afraid I'm turning into a hippie. It's ranged from a number of interests I've watched cropping up in myself lately; my renewed curiosity about the lemonade cleanse thing that I'm sure you've all heard too much about, a vague interest in using more grains in my eating, and maybe less meat, which turned up this book of veggie burger recipes, my continuing explorations in rye and hippie bread-making, even a renewed interest in knitting (current wishful thinking? socks).

I am, of course, countering this mysterious mental plague by mainlining cinnamon hearts, water with a mini-freezie dissolved in it (hydration now!), and uber-fancy cookies. Nothing like a continuous stream of refined sugar, processed flour and chemical dye to stifle one's budding inner hippie.

...Seriously though, I am totally still thinking about that lemonade thing. Even though I'd need to take two weeks when I could stay home for evacuation convenience (yeah, about that? I know it's good for you and all? but this hippie health stuff? a little on the ick side). I'm just so curious to know how it feels to be light and bursting with energy. A little nervous about the way you really feel it when you try to eat crap coming off it though. I mean I know I eat stuff I shouldn't (*cough*cinnamon hearts much?*cough*), but I'm reacting badly to the thought that I might actually change my ways some day. Maybe that's where I'm drawing the line between sanity and Hippiedom. Those cinnamon hearts, and my ability to eat an entire pixie stix (pixie stik?) with no ill effects are the only thing holding me back from transforming into a dreads-sporting, patchouli-scented, lentil-snarfer.

I have visions of myself waking up in a cold sweat, clutching a bag of candy to my chest, as I try to slow my breathing, pushing away mental images of hand-holding, rye-eating healthy people who expelled me from their circle of love for eating a chocolate chip cookie. "That chocolate wasn't organic! And do you know how much caffeine there is in that cookie?! Why aren't you using carob?"

*shudder* We're alright. There's no way I'd ever seriously espouse a lifestyle that justified the human consumption of carob. I'm safe from the clutches of those goddamn hippies.

For now.

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