Hot Flashes – The Adventures of the Spit Bath

By Sue Langenberg

I mentioned something about having to take a spit bath the other day and was questioned about the legal definition. The friend said that she thought a spit bath was when you converse with people and accidentally spray them as you talk. Thus the phrase, “Do you serve towels with your baths?”

I was immediately guilty thinking that I had done something socially unacceptable at some point in my life. It’s an old habit but lingers with a lifetime of wagging fingers. After all, if there’s crime against polite manners, I should have been arrested long ago by the League of Pursed Lips Ladies or perhaps the Third Age Emily Posts Against Hags.

After thinking carefully, however, I don’t think that I have sprayed many people in my time, though I think an acquaintance once took a handy beach towel from his back pocket. It followed a dentist appointment when I had less to work with after removal of so much plaque that my teeth felt like Swiss cheese.

Having discussed the proper definition of the spit bath, she thought that a sponge bath was probably what I meant to say. Whatever the term, I don’t know how people did either one as a regular habit.

I am of the mindset that you turn on a scrubby and plentiful shower, feel steamed and replenished with an experience that transforms you to into another person ready for the talc and freshness all around. Anything less is the Middle Ages, for sure. It didn’t come easily, however . . .

In my earlier days, I dwelled at my grandmother’s farm house where the shower had frozen pipes so often that they finally gave up and removed it from her one humble bathroom. She probably thought herself yet privileged to be upgraded after the original outhouse on the property. I can certainly understand how all things are relative in appreciation comparisons. I remember that illustrious outhouse and qualify as the only child in the Midwest winter that held a bladder hostage for the longest because of cold rear end breezes. I don’t remember how that situation resolved itself but I am obviously still thriving, bladder and all.

Luckily, I was little and was bathed in the kitchen sink, still superior to the spit bath.

So having no shower, my grandmother had no choice but the spit bath. This went on for years, and she never complained one word about it. Every night, she would stand before her kitchen sink like the Rite of Cleanliness and remove her corset to begin the process. The water heater, of course, was nearby in the kitchen corner with a doily centered on top. Sometimes, there were knick-knacks on the doily.

So she painstakingly sponged – OK, sponge, spit, whatever – herself and seemed to cover all the body parts. Nearby was her clean nightgown. Somehow, she must have felt clean and refreshed and scuffed away like nothing happened.

In my mind, nothing happened. Having had some recent work done on my bathroom wall and ceiling, I had no choice but to report to the half bath on the first floor for some days in a row. I didn’t think I would last that long having to attempt the spit bath. Either that or need some instruction on how not to flood the floor, stand upright without falling and survive the abusive mirror. I was certainly too big to fit in the sink, a thought that I seriously considered until the mirror snickered.

Maybe if the water heater were nearby with a doily in the middle I could perfect the spit bath technique. For now, I am most thankful for a luxury shower with pipes that don’t freeze.

Can you relate? If you would like to comment on Hot Flashes, Sue can be reached via E-mail at , or .