The Sunday

Yesterday, I painted my basement for eight hours, spending a good deal of that time with my arms stretched over my head and my toes at their tippiest so that I could reach the ceiling. I was a bit tired when I was done. If all the universe worked to fulfill my every whim, I would have, then, simply fallen onto the couch (or into bed) to read the night away. But, alas, I was covered in wet, white primer and value my furniture too much. So instead I decided to take a bath and read . . .

Now, I know some of you are gasping in horror at the idea of a book going near the bathtub – “it might fall,” “you might splash it” – I can hear you saying, and you’d be right. I have dropped books into the bathtub (you should see my copy of Ackerman’s Natural History of the Senses); I have fallen asleep with a book in my hands in the bathtub, a hazard to both the book and me; I have splashed water on pages. But in the end, it’s worth it. There’s probably no simple reading pleasure that I enjoy more than reading in the bathtub.

So today, after I move furniture and clean my house (the real estate agent comes to put it on the market at 3pm this afternoon), I will run another bath, put some rosemary soap in it, and soak with a good book. I wish you your own version of reading luxury today.