Friday night I came home from dinner with the girls, kissed the trio of messy haired mugs on the couch watching some apparent illegal form of Hotel Transylvania, peeked in at Andy playing some totally nerdy computer gun war game, went to my closet, pulled off my shirt, unbuttoned my jeggings, and went to the bathroom to wash my face.
I hunched over the sink, splashing and scrubbing my face with whatever grown up shit I’m supposed to use now, because I’m 30 and I still have the same blackheads I had when I was 14, and also because my dermatologist looked horrified when he asked me what I used to wash my face with, and I was all, oh you know, whatever is in the shower, like body wash or Vagisil and stuff. So out of pity and disgust, he gave me like 100 tiny sample tubes of this crazy expensive face wash made of panda hearts.
With my scrunched up dripping face, I reached for my towel to dry things off, and when I pulled it away I saw Wyatt and Jude eating pizza on the side of the tub talking about Lord of the Rings.
A few moments later, Gigi walked in wearing her epically over-priced ballet recital tutu, again, probably sewn together by panda hair, climbed up on the toilet and continued playing on her iPod.
I began my nightly ritual of creams, all neatly lined up in a row along the back of my sink, the bottles now matte with hairspray over-spray. Kiehl’s Midnight Recovery Eye Cream, Aveno for my face, and Bliss Blood Orange and Black Pepper body lotion for my arms.
There’s a giant tub in my bathroom. When we toured the house, I saw the master bathroom and fell in love with the thought of me, soaking in a deep bubble bath surrounded by candles and the Garden State soundtrack. I’ve been in that tub exactly once, and I had to use Monistat for a week after, just to get the itching to stop. Now it’s full of bath toys and features a faint rose colored ring from excessive Disney flavored bubble bath.
Sometimes looking at that tub makes me sad.
Andy walked in to find me lightly tapping the eye cream into place. That’s what the Asian girl I learned how to do make-up from on youtube told me to do. Tap, not rub.
He’s growing his hair out and looking to buy a sports car. I love that we get to go through quarter life crises together because it’s way less desperate looking when you’re not the only one belting out Taylor Swift lyrics into a hairbrush.
So anyways, it occurred to me there, in my bathroom, with my shirt off and people in various weird forms of activity around me, that this is where all our family communication takes place. Sometimes in the bathroom. Sometimes outside the door. Sometimes by shoving tiny fingers through the crack along the floor.
We are not dinner table communicators. First of all, you can’t see the television from there, and secondly, what would I do with all the unmatched socks and mason jars of urine?
Just kidding. We don’t wear socks.