I remember I used to take baths. I remember the dull pink walls of the bathtub and surrounding tiles in various shades of brown. I remember ever so slowly easing into the hot water, and how my top half was always too cold out of the water and always too warm in the water. I remember I had no rubber ducky--my only bath play object was a faded washcloth. I remember I used to trap air in the washcloth and pretend it was a parachute or a jellyfish or some odd alien creature. I remember I would then squeeze the air out and pretend that the parachute had collapsed or the jellyfish had stung its foe or I had wrung the brains out of my odd alien creature. I remember staring at my wrinkled fingertips and wondering why the rest of me wasn�t wrinkled even though it was just as wet. I remember I liked baths, even though the thought of taking one was never fun or pleasant.

And so today, I tossed aside my hurried harried outlook and regard for water conservation and filled the tub. The same old predicament surfaced--how I had to choose between a hot or cold upper body--but it was sublime. I slid into the hot water and just relaxed. It�s been a long day--a long week, in fact. And it felt good to do nothing. There were no parachutes or jellyfish or odd alien creatures this time but it seemed, as it did also when I was a kid, time stood still when I was in the bath. Or, perhaps it was that I had slipped back to a state of irreverence for the passage of time--this time an intentional regression, a deliberate irreverence. I�m glad the week is over.