I think I'm becoming more and more like the Frances McDormand character in the movie Friends with Money. I just don't want to wash so much. Most of my life, I've bathed every single god-given day. Maybe it's the new year, maybe it's that peri-meno craploa, maybe it's because I'm actually happy, but I just don't care that much about the same stuff I used to. When I wake up in the morning, I'd rather hang out and chat with Charlie after he wakes up, when he's still warm and squishy-faced. I still climb into the shower to endure the fluctuating temperatures and pressures every other day and ensuing dry skin. But, sheesh, I think it's okay to give Dirty Bert a break.
PS: Who is Dirty Bert, you ask? He's the villain from the old Mr. Bubble tv commercials from my youth. As in "Take a bath with Mr. Bubble, and give Dirty Bert [*pause*] a lot of trouble." My Bubbie always had a box of Mr. Bubble on the edge of the tub - she liked it because it seemed closer to detergent and therefore potentially able to clean and disinfect you better.