I’m Too Good For Dial

I think I may have developed a serious Snotty Soap addiction. I haven’t bought a bar of soap off the shelf from the grocery store in years. If it’s not handmade, imported, organically scented, and very overpriced, I usually won’t buy it. Because, apparently, I’m Too Good For Dial.

It started innocently enough. There was this great little boutique near my youngest daughter’s school, and when we’d go visit her several times a year, I’d end up buying bags of expensive soap. They only carried a few brands, but I’d buy one of every scent that didn’t smell too girly. It was a nice treat. I work hard. I deserve it.

Slowly, over time, it began to spin out of control. I’ll buy soap online. Or even from a catalogue. No idea what it really smells or feels like, but if you’ve got that J. Peterman gift of descriptive prose, I’m there and I’m buying.

Craft fair granola soap making aging hippies love me, because I’ll buy the whole collection from every booth, so long as it isn’t specifically targeted towards women. There is something particularly offensive to me about soap makers who target only women, as if men don’t give a shit what soap they use, even if it is true.

Why would anyone buy a $14 bar of soap from a catalogue? Seriously? Because one is addicted. And one can’t claim that one is simply becoming more selective about what one applies to one’s aging skin, or that one is pampering oneself, if one will buy any f**king bar of soap that looks interesting and is NOT located in a grocery store or drug store. Soap shops are fine. Craft fairs are fine. Catalogues and online shops indicate a decided indifference to what the hell the product actually IS and more of a need to simply obtain said product, which is, my friends, addiction.

I’ve considered joining a 12-step program for Snotty Soap addiction, but I can’t find one in Kentucky, so I’ll have to do my recovery group online, which is now all the rage anyway, once I’m willing to admit that I’m powerless, because who wants to sit in a room on hard folding chairs with a bunch of strangers and listen to them whine for an hour and then drink bad coffee? At this point, however, I’m not ready to give up my vice. I haven’t hit rock bottom just yet. And by god, when I do hit rock bottom, I will smell pretty damn good.

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