Thursday, September 2, 2010

Fun in the Shower and other Ironic Delights


Tuesday morning in the shower I was doing this thing I do. First I rub some bodywash all over my torso and arms, then I cross my arms and extend them straight out from my chest, so they form a squarish kind of circle. The idea is to create a large, round disk of soap inside the circle of my arms. I then blow downward on this sheet to form a giant bubble. Every so often a wobbly, misshapen bubble comes together for a split second before popping. I never try more than once. As soon as the sphere pops, which is always and immediately, I repress a twinge of disappointment, rinse off, and go about the desultory business of drying and dressing and acting like an adult. That’s where things were headed Tuesday. I blew down into the soapy sheet, the bubble blobbed into shape momentarily, and then it seemed to disappear in a blink. And, I guess I did blink, because when I put my arms down, there it was: an enormous, perfect, iridescent bubble hovering before me. Verily, a bubble as big as my flipping head. And it was there for an eternity of about 1.5 seconds. The rest of the day, whenever I thought of the bubble, which was often, it appeared to me such a gift that my heart would throb and my throat close. The only word to describe the feeling is delight, a pure shimmering delight.

When I told my parents about the bubble at dinner, my dad said, “hmm, maybe it was an angel,” with EXACTLY the kind of cynicism I would have felt if someone told me this story. And strangely, that ALSO filled me with delight.