You think you know everything there is to know about a person. You spend years sleeping next to him. You raise his children, pick up his underwear, listen patiently to all his stories. You love him for better or worse. You love him through thick and thin. You love him even when his head has a whole lot less hair on it while his nose and ears have a whole lot more hair in them. Then that person does something that leaves you wondering if you ever really knew him at all.
That’s just what happened to me. And it all started with a bar of soap.
Now this wasn’t any ordinary bar of soap. See, I recently discovered a wonderful little soap shop. It’s one of those delightfully aromatic places that pull women in like a pied piper and make men believe they’ve been infused with estrogen just walking through the door. I explored the shop in awe, smelling each handmade concoction and imagining its gentle ingredients caressing my skin. The sales clerk explained that a woman’s skin is intelligent, natural, honest and pure, and that it needs a soap with the same qualities.
“A woman shouldn’t be using a man’s soap,” she said. “If you insult its intelligence, your skin will rebel.”
Well no wonder my skin hasn’t been looking too good lately. I’ve been washing it with horrible man soap. Consumed by guilt, I filled a shopping bag with scented soaps that set me back a pretty penny. I took my high-class suds home and promptly took a bath, lathering my suffering skin. Instantly, my skin began to look smarter, and I felt tingly all over.
When I’d finished bathing, I carefully re-wrapped my special soap in the pretty paper from the store and put it into a drawer, looking forward to using it again the next day.
But when I went into the bathroom the next morning—shortly after my husband had showered—I was horrified to find my womanly washing material in the shower, covered with suds. The pretty store paper was lying crumpled on the floor. I made the kind of guttural growl a mama grizzly makes when her cub is threatened, then grabbed my soap and went in search of my spouse.
“Did you use my special soap?” I yelled, thrusting the bar at him.
He had the gall to look confused.
“What special soap? The bar that was in there was getting too small. I just pulled out whatever was in the drawer. “
“That was my special, pure, homemade, girly soap! The soap I paid big bucks for! The soap that’s going to do wonders for my skin! ”
“Oh,” he said, grinning. “No wonder it made my butt feel so soft.”
Naturally, I had to throw that particular bar in the trash. The rest of my special soap is now kept in an undisclosed location, under lock and key. I only use it when I’m alone in the house and can enjoy taking an undisturbed bath. Any day now, my skin will start to look utterly brilliant.