I Expect A Lot From My Soap.

So, I realized this morning that I have a totally love-hate relationship with decorative soap. I mean, is there really anything more beautiful than decorative soap? I have lovely soaps inlayed with strawberries, candy canes, tomatoes, tiny stars, lemons, ducks, and poppy seeds. I have pricey little soaps cloaked in embroidered cloths, and scented like heaven. I have French soaps chiseled with quaint phrases. I have soaps shaped like animals, fruits and flowers. I even have racey little bits of soap from London boutiques, and peppermint soaps strong enough to scour kitchen floors. I have hundreds of sweetly-scented bars, chunks and statuettes quietly collecting dust, tucked away in linen closets, resting in dark caverns beneath sinks, and displayed, futile and obsolete, on oaken bathroom shelves. And yet, somehow, they just continue to accumulate. But, I never use these delicious fragrant darlings. Because, here is the dilemma - once a person unwraps and puts water to the surface of her soap, its mystery is gone. That unmarred bit of print, that soft threaded wrap, those carefully cut edges and perfectly sliced-through shapes - gone. How could I knowingly take that remarkably crafted powder-soft sweetness of some young not-yet-disillusioned soapstress and use it for the banal pleasure of cleansing dirty hands, feet and faces. I will save these things forever - for the quietest of moments with myself, in which I slowly, deliberately, peel off a perfect soap's perfect plastic wrapper, and sit for many breathes, soap cupped in warm hands. I will hold the soaps to my face, remembering where they have been and who they have known, and drink their memorable perfumes with relish. Then, someday even, I will douse them in perfectly warm water, run my hands over them and around them, and suds will form. Those suds will wash me with memories and sweet moments I will have otherwise been sure were lost long, long ago.