Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Perfectly Good Soap

If there's one thing that could be the undoing of my marriage, it's hotel soap. And if not the only thing, then hotel soap would certainly be in the top five.

When I was growing up, my family would always snatch up the hotel shampoos and soaps when we traveled. My mother used to call them schnorrs, from the Yiddish, which I always interpreted as a celebratory thing: a cornucopia of freebies. Then I come to find out (just now, as I was trying to figure out how exactly to spell schnorr) that it's actually a perjorative term that connotes sponging. Oy vey.



Yet we delighted in the hotel freebies and always took them. My mother had me trained by the age of ten to make a clean sweep of any hotel bathroom within 30 seconds. As a result, we always had dozens of miniature shampoos, conditioners and soaps on hand at home.

My mother must have been taught similarly by HER mother because after my grandmother passed away, we came across boxes of little hotel soaps. My grandmother was a child of the depression and she would save everything because it might be useful someday. Only someday never came. She didn't use these soaps and we were faced with bar upon tiny bar of Ivory, Camay, and Dial from the likes of Portugal, Argentina, Germany, Virginia, Louisiana. My grandmother was right was right: soap is useful. I figured it was about time someone put these to use.

So I made it my mission to live up to this inheritance, to use all of these little hotel soaps, darkened and crusted with age though they were.

When I got married, my husband and I joined households. His mother had passed away and, wouldn't you know, he had his very own inheritance of miniature soaps, too. Our collections combined. White, pink, green, black even – all yearning to lather. I joked that we could save thousands of dollars because would never have to buy soap again. At the time my husband laughed.

I set about using the hotel soaps. After two or three showers, a tiny bar would be so thin I could bend it. So I'd mush it against a fresh bar of tiny soap to make a slightly bigger bar that would last a little bit longer. I increased the lifetime of each soap, stretching out one little lathering life while expanding the breadth of another.

One day, my husband, who took very little interest in the running of the house, approached me. He was clearly upset.

"We need to talk about something." A phrase I usually used when I wanted to engage him in deep conversation.

"Okay," I said.

"I can't stand the soaps."

Stunned silence. I never knew he noticed. I never knew he cared. Surely he was joking.

"What's the problem?" I asked.

"They're tiny!" He raged. Sweat gathered around his temples. His face twitched. "I can't hold them. They slip out. They don't last. It's like they're not even soaps!"

The solution was simple: We could buy nice soaps and move along. But as I stared at the giant-sized family-pack bars on sale for $7.99 at the drug store, I just couldn't. My grandparents, my parents, his mother – all had painstaking stripped every hotel they ever stayed at of their toiletries. How could I turn my back on that and throw it all away? I couldn't.

Then a thought occurred. Not all soaps are created equal and when it comes to hotel toiletries, there is a pretty broad spectrum in terms of quality. Some places give you French milled soap while others toss a dollop of glycerin your way. Some are teeny tiny while others are – not family bar sized to be sure – but pretty decent. I simply needed to take stock.

So I made a project. I divided up the soap into decent-sized and miniscule. I set the miniscule bars aside for hand washing and the so-so sized bars aside for showering. That was four years ago. Things were going pretty well.

But recently I learned otherwise. I was about to leave on a trip to visit my parents, during which I planned to bring back some useful items for our home: chairs, bed linens, soap. I hadn't told him of my plans, but he knew.

"Please," he begged, "please don't bring back any more soap." He sounded defeated, weary.

I smiled at him, but didn't reply either way. How could I not bring back more soap? There are still boxes to go. We've hardly made a dent.

I confess I enjoy a nice Dove beauty bar with its added moisturizers and light, clean scent. I love that new bars don't have a dried, yellow crust that takes several days to work through before you can get a decent lather going. But I am cheap. And I hate throwing PERFECTLY GOOD THINGS away. My grandmother would be proud.

So I brought some back, but didn't tell him. Just like when parents tell children on road trips that the destination is "not much farther," so too I lie to my husband and tell him the soaps are "nearly gone."

In the meantime, I try to find ways to appease him. For Christmas, I wrapped up a two-pack of brand new normal soap. When my husband unwrapped it, he laughed. That $5 gift made him happier than the $50 gift. And it kept him quiet for awhile.

I've changed, too. I'm selective now. When I stay at hotels, I no longer take any old soap they toss at me. I'm discerning. I have to like the soap. And the soap has to be big enough.

I've stopped mushing pieces together. I am happy to report that after two years of therapy, if the soap cracks or is razor thin, I am now able to throw it away without guilt.

I buy soap as our new souvenir. I am not a fan of clutter, so instead of buying plates or bowls or art to commemorate our trips, I buy soap. It has to be special – something locally produced or hand made.

These things help, but I know what he truly wants. I just hope that our marriage is strong enough to last that long. I hope our marriage can stand the test of time… just like our soap.

1 comment:

  1. I love your writing. Makes me smile. Getting a pedicure, looking out at a sun filled afternoon and laughing over soap. Good times!

    ReplyDelete