A Good Bar

of Soap is

Hard to Find

By Robin Hoselton

Andrew asked me to marry him.  Andrew is smart, he’s a good cook, and he adores me. Nevertheless, I had to stall for time. My sense of self and identity must remain independent of a merger. Translation: I can’t consider marriage until I find my soap.

When he raised his eyebrows in a puzzled query, I tried to explain. In my first marriage my spouse and I were young kids barely able to subsist from paycheck to paycheck. We cleverly managed to indulge in social amenities by using whatever resources were at our disposal. We read the Sunday paper at the local library on Mondays. We relieved gas stations of their extra rolls of toilet tissue. We filched small soap bars from department store restrooms.

Eventually, changing times caught up with us. Liquid soap dispensers came into vogue along with parenthood. By that time we could afford to buy Ivory soap which we used until our offspring and our marriage reached 11 years.

My second marriage was to a farmer who had a propensity to sweat and emit a rather earthy body aroma.  For that reason, he preferred that I buy a deodorant soap and Irish Spring in particular. Since my eight-to-five job supported the family along with three dogs, five cats, three horses and 42 goats, I had to stretch my pennies. Buying two brands of soap was out of the question. I was wed to Irish Spring for 14 years.

Now I am single and at long last have the selfish luxury of buying my own soap. I anticipated my first foray into the commercial world of personal hygiene with glee that quickly evaporated when I discovered how overwhelming my quest proved. 

How can the consumer make a practical choice from the vast selection of soaps without seeing, feeling, or smelling them?

Each one, or sometimes bundles of three or six, are sealed in packages so that it’s like buying a pig in a poke.  You may pay hard-earned money for one brand, only to find after you get home and unwrap it that it’s as heavily perfumed as a doxy in a house of ill repute.  Another may be shaped with sharp corners or lack that satisfying heft that a good bar of soap should have. Yet, another may have the right smell and the right shape but turn to mushy slime when it gets wet.

All these trial and error soaps are costly, so I cannot discard them. Consequently, there’s a requisite waiting period while I use the dud before I can start the selection process all over again. There are hundreds of soaps in the market place. I’ll have to gamble that I can choose one before Andrew tires of waiting on my answer to his marriage proposal.

A friend suggested that I stick with Ivory. Sure, I could settle for a soap so unique that it floats but Ivory is so pristine, so 'clean,' so sterile, so boring. My soap should reflect my personality. It should practically sing my name.

Hmmm...I wonder if there’s one made of chocolate!