I haven’t bought a bar of soap in years. No lye. No, I don’t stink (I think), and no, to beat any snarky commentators to le punch, I am not French. Nor have I had my sweat glands removed or Botox-ified.
Rather, my name is Laura and I am a soap-oholic. Or to be more specific, I have a zest for checking out with hotel soap. There’s nothing that can safeguard those pristine bars from my little paws. And yes, sometimes I do coast by the unattended housekeeper’s cart and lift a hunk or two. I can’t help myself. Those little pieces of wrapped ivory are as tempting to me as the ebony washboard abs of the new Old Spice Man.
Now, mind you, I am particular. I don’t do Cashmere Bouquet nor other tiny soaps exsiccated to the point of flakiness (you know, the ones that seem to be de rigueur at chintzy hotels worldwide). Nor do I pry the ever-more-present (green) soap dispenser from the wall. But dial me up a lovey-dovey bar of Gilchrist and Soames, Crabtree & Evelyn, Caswell-Massey (so many soap names seem to come in pears**), and other lux brands, and I’m in a lather. And if I stumble upon Hermes or Kiehl’s (the former stocked in a mere two dozen American hotels; the latter in fewer than 10)…well, that‘s a rarity in life, buoy or buoy.
I used to be addicted to hotel shampoos and lotions, too. (I have never had much use for bath gel, which, although soap in definition, doesn’t meet my bar). But now that one’s liquids are on full frontal display at security, well, it’s simply not suave to have one’s one-quart plastic bag stuffed with dozens of two-ounce elixirs. Even when traveling with a checked bag, the notion of lotion caressing one’s DWF wrap dress leaves me feeling unctuous. So, clearly, I have been cured of my liquid predilection. Olay.* But, alas, I believe my soap opera is to be continued.
*In the name of full disclosure, I must parenthetically add, dear reader, that yours truly was once a spokesmodel for the Olay brand.
**For the soap-pun challenged, please note that all misspellings are intentional.