I had been contemplating bathing this morning anyway. Even before Nick said I had to.
As I stepped into the shower to perform my ablutions, I cheerfully announced that I hadn't washed my hair since Thursday night. The man I love, the man who showered twice yesterday, grimaced.
The truth is, I was dirty. I mean, I'd showered mid-day Friday after I worked out. But, lacking both the time and the inclination - my hair is so dry in the winter - I hadn't washed my hair. I'd only lifted weights, so I hadn't gotten that sweaty. Plus, once my hair got long enough to pull back, I discovered the joy and convenience of the low ponytail. Looks professional at work; hides its unwashed nature.
But beyond the knowledge that I'm helping out my dry skin and hair, I cannot precisely explain my occasional and utter delight at arriving at the point of filthiness. Not feculence or putrescence. Just a satisfying level of griminess.
It is rare that I can pull this off, and I revel in it.
One cannot manage it on a weekday, nor on a weekend with social obligations. You can really only do this when you're not leaving the house - and preferably not even removing the fleece jammies you got into Friday night. It has to be timed when not only do you not have to look nice, but you have no reason to have to be clean.
For me, I think, this is true decadence.
And the horrifying truth is, I could've gone a whole nother day, or at least waited till after I went running this afternoon. Definitely tonight, as Sunday is sheet-washing day, and nothing feels better than getting into clean sheets superclean.
But for the protestations of the man I like to call my husband, plus the fact that I need to venture out to Target, I most certainly would have waited.