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The last time I took a leisurely bubble bath complete with candles, face masque and soothing-Enya-esque music was at 7:30 am, Sunday, May 17th, 2009. Why, you ask, do I remember this event so vividly? It is because on that morning I awoke to the lovely, searing pain of labor contractions signaling that this would be my last moment, for quite some time, that I would be able to indulge in such a luxury. So indulge I did (except every 9 minutes for 30-45 seconds when another contraction would strike). I read trashy magazines, shaved my legs, and splashed blissfully in those rosey-scented bubbles as I braced myself for months without such deliciousness.

Fast forward ten weeks later, and here we are, and until yesterday evening I had not in fact taken such a glorious bath since my daughter’s birth. My hubs must have sensed my growing anxiety over my mother’s departure, what with my little blow out claiming that he was an insensitive ass and he was leaving me ALL ALONE, hear me, ALL ALONE, to raise our daughter! Reality check: He is, in fact, one of the most attentive men I’ve ever met and he is neither a donkey nor is he flying the coop. He works a standard 9-5 while I waste away all of our  life savings and drive us into horrendous amounts of debt studying for my Masters degree. And no, not in a practical field that will guarantee I earn back the hundreds of thousands of dollars I’ve spent intellectually masturbating for two years. A degree in ART! PUBLIC ART! Whew! Just had to get that off my chest.

Anyway, where was I? Right, he sensed I was anxious. After dinner, he strapped the baby to his chest and wrangled our bouncing, whining, desperate-for-attention retriever onto a leash and headed to the park so I could have some “me time.” I walked into the bathroom and there, lit by the side of the bath tub, was my favorite cassis scented candle. A simple message left from James: “For the love of God, get in the tub woman and BITCH BE COOL!” And get in the tub I did. And bitch be cool I was. I have never enjoyed a bath more thoroughly.

I don’t think I’ve experienced anything so romantic since I was an EMO nineteen year old and my HMS* boyfriend threw rose petals around my dorm room for our what, two week anniversary? Needless to say, my roommate was less than pleased but I sure did feel like I had Lloyd Dobbler standing outside my window with a boom box blaring “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel. Unfortunately for me and the HMS-BF, we did not work out like Lloyd and Diane Court. He was six inches shorter than me (mind you, I am SIX FEET TALL, a moose if you will), but I should have known it was destined for failure from the start. I can’t compete with a man who weeps as much as I do all while clad in a leather jacket and gel-slicked hair standing just below my chin. Cannot compete.

So James turned out to be my Lloyd, and while I’ve been waiting for it for almost six years, his boom box moment was yesterday, with the simplicity of a lit candle.

I didn’t know I could love someone this much.

*HMS also known as Hispanic Male Syndrome: A condition afflicting Latino males that causes them to overly emote in ways comparable to an angsty, love-sick, sixteen year old female.