How I Saved Some Myself Talcum Powder and Relationship with my Mother

Summary

The author discovered a novel method to use talcum powder without incurring their mother's wrath over bathroom cleanliness.

Abstract

The author has recently developed a fondness for talcum powder, using it extensively to combat the summer heat and find solace in a world affected by lockdowns. However, their mother, a cleanliness enthusiast particularly fixated on spotless bathrooms, reacts with distress upon finding talcum powder residue on the bathroom tiles. The author devises a clever solution to apply the powder without leaving any mess, thus avoiding conflict and preserving their newfound love for the product while maintaining peace with their mother.

Opinions

The author expresses a deep appreciation for talcum powder, finding it both refreshing and a source of joy in challenging times.
The mother is portrayed as having a compulsive need for cleanliness, especially in the bathroom, which causes significant stress for the author.
The author initially faces a dilemma between their love for talcum powder and their mother's cleanliness standards, which is resolved through an innovative approach to using the powder.
The author describes their mother's reactions to the mess with dramatic imagery, emphasizing the intensity of her response.
There is a sense of triumph and satisfaction from the author after successfully using talcum powder without causing a mess, suggesting a playful and persistent character.

Saving both of them was hard but I found a miraculous way to do it

I have discovered a newfound love for talcum powder in the last few weeks. It is all over me. Sprinkled over the private and the not-so-private of my body, it saves me a trip to the Himalayas. The tiny, blue-green box with white contents is a panacea for the sweltering summer heat. The chemical reaction that erupts on my skin when the powder molecules come in contact with wet skin is rejuvenating. In the seething tropical heat and a world locked in (or locked down?), the talcum powder gives me cheap thrills.

My mother, however, erupts with different albeit equally intense emotion at the sight of it. She is a fidgeting 50-year-old single guardian to three unyielding children. She has nerves as brittle as parched autumn leaves. You can walk all over it and ruffle her calm. It is easy to set her off. Although she is fond of empty gossip, her obsession is clean bathrooms. By clean, I don’t mean rid of dead mutilated flies or the floating glory of the toilet pot clean. I mean slick floors, dry, as left by Adam and Eve for their successors to use, clean. In the cult words of Monica from F.R.I.E.N.D.S.

Image courtesy of J-Guard

No slippery puddles from the door to the sink. Not even stray droplets. She has more cleaning tools in her bathroom than the hardware store down the road.

Imagine the horrors of talcum powder sprinkled all over the auburn bathroom tiles. The water you can wipe slick to K with the 3 foot longer bathroom wiper, (a weapon she’s come to hold dearer than her kids). But how do you scrub away the dissolute talcum powder stains hardened in dry, humid weather? The shaft of light coming in from the window shakes its head in dismay. Like a mad, annoyed bull heralding the arrival of death.

And death it is. Death by words. Lost in her spotless world on a late summer afternoon, my mother passes nonchalantly by the ajar bathroom door. She has almost strutted two steps ahead when she comes back to inspect the bathroom, an inquisitive look on her face. When she cranes her neck and peeps, I know I’m going to have the time of my life. Predecessors to doom, the flock of black crows on the nearby trees fluttering away. The ensuing shriek makes every critter within a two-mile radius jump out of their skin and hold on to their dear lives. She yanks me by my ears and drags me inside, blocking the doorway till I lick every nook and cranny of the bathroom dry.

My ears throb in pain. My insolent limbs are begrudgingly sore. The human in me wants to give up. The talcum-powder lover thinks otherwise. True love is hard to come by. I am not going to let a few quotidian scoldings separate me from my love.

They say necessity is the mother of invention. My necessity and I bear a lovechild the next day. Lost in the dreaded thought of talcum-powder cleanup, I do something phenomenal. I cup my hands and pour the talcum powder on my palms. Then, I dab my private and not-so-private parts with it. As I reluctantly peered on the puddled floor, I cannot see a single white spot on the blissful brown-tiled expanse. My powder bottle seems heavier-than-expected too. Viola! My pupils dilate. I want to run amok, in my naked predicament as Archimedes did. My face aches from too much smiling. Short of breath, I go giddy with excitement. I have almost drifted out of the bathroom window in celebration of victory when a sharp rap on the door brings me back. My inquisitive mother inquires about the delaying state-of-affairs prevailing inside. I quickly drag my wayward thoughts back in the bathroom and compose myself. I am no Archimedes. And my mother no 20th-century curious scholar to entertain my whims and fancies. I dress up deftly and slip out of the bathroom. As my suspicious mother’s puckered face peers inside, I walk out, suppressing a wry smile.

It’s been 10 days since the incident unfolded. I still bathe myself twice every day: once in plain water, once in the divine talcum powder. But in stark contrast to 10 days ago, my mother only finds evidence of water on the floor now. She happily wipes it away with the godforsaken wiper and whistles to herself as she walks out of the bathroom. She may have conquered the bathroom.

But I’ve triumphed the summer 2020 talcum-powder war.

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