Where Do You Find Wonder in Middle Age?

Behold the bath bomb.

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Boredom doesn’t happen to me because I am a deeply curious person. There’s never enough time for reading and writing alone, and that’s before factoring in moments for friends and family. The pursuit of wonder, however, is a far different quest. The cultivation of deep interests is a meaningful use of time, but it doesn’t equal the experience of awe.

Sometimes, I crave something transcendent and fascinating. I don’t do illicit drugs—fortunately or unfortunately—so hallucinogens are not an option. Travel to a magnificent destination could satisfy my urge, but it’s not an option on a regular day.

What I’m seeking is novelty—some new sensory stimuli—and let’s face it—after five decades on this planet, what new thing can I see, hear, touch, smell, or taste each day?

To fully appreciate the dull fact of one’s stagnant existence, I recommend hanging out with toddlers for an afternoon. Those creatures are constantly bumping up against something new. They are the embodiment of wonder.

Maybe this is why grandparents are so excited about becoming grandparents by the time they reach the age of grandparenthood. They get a chance to relive things through the eyes of little ones (and without the responsibility).

I am not ready for grandparenthood and there’s no guarantee I’ll ever become one, so in the meanwhile, I’m on my own, searching for some way to astonish myself.

This is more challenging than it sounds and probably why so many mid-lifers end up having wild sexual affairs. I’ve heard the dopamine hit of an extramarital encounter is mind-blowing, but if you wait out a friend’s thrilling story, there’s usually a final climax that follows after all the orgasms. And this climax is often the very opposite of joy. I’m talking devastation.

I’m unwilling to throw away my three-decades of marriage for a new sex partner who also, by the way, might require extensive training. Plus, our sex life is great. I have no complaints.

So where, I wondered, would I find unexpected ecstasy?

I finally found it right here at home. In my bathroom. In the bathtub. Floating in the water. This tiny miracle is known as The Bath Bomb.

I came late to this particular indulgence, but that is exactly why the bath bomb was able to rescue me at this particular point in time—had we met any sooner, the novelty would’ve already expired. In retrospect, it’s almost as if my unconscious knew to resist until now.

Some secret corner of my mind is like a prophet and knew that the future would be full of global discord and toxic polarization and rising antisemitism, and it probably whispered to my conscious self:

Save the bath bomb for later.

My friends, “later” finally arrived.

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But first, more backstory:

My children were long obsessed with the store, LUSH. Over the years, they wanted to buy me gifts from there, but because my skin is ultra-sensitive, I refused said offerings because I feared anything fancier than an oatmeal soak.

After years of their begging and pleading, I broke down over this past holiday season and agreed to visit the store. I didn’t last long in there—there were too many competing scents—but I did buy something for myself. The kids didn’t even need to prompt the purchase.

We’d seen the new Wicked movie a few nights prior, and LUSH was selling Wicked themed bath bombs. The one that caught my eye was a witch’s hat:

I relate to witches. I think I aspire to be one. The flying thing appeals to me more than the magic—I have complex feelings about power—but soaring past the moon? Yes. I want to do that.

I couldn’t leave that witch-hat bath bomb behind. When I got home, I wondered what I would do with it? If I bathed with the black hat, would it make me itch? I take Zyrtec daily. Would I need to add a dose of Benadryl?

Eventually, curiosity got the best of me. I filled the tub.

I had never bath-bombed before, so I wasn’t sure how to do it. Was I supposed to dip the pointed tip of the hat in the water and slowly swirl it? I didn’t have patience. Like a toddler, I flung that tiny sculpture of a headpiece into the water. It made a small splash. I kept watch over it.

How that hat unfurled once wet!

If the wicked witch is melted by water, then her hat is activated by it.

The water didn’t turn black. The water became a magical potion of green and purple and gold glitter. The hat danced as it shrunk. I was awestruck. The colors! The scents! The glorious feeling of silkening skin.

I rubbed my feet together. They felt twenty years softer.

I went online to order more products. I downloaded the LUSH app. I am not a happy shopper, but choosing bath bombs proved exciting. I didn’t want to read the details—that would spoil the fun—so I picked a boxful based on color and shape alone.

After my package arrived, I took to nightly baths and discovered multiple surprises. Some of the bombs crackled and popped. The tiny bursts reminded me of a childhood breakfast—that of Rice Krispies exploding in milk.

Night after night, I filled the tub and soaked in hot water and bathed with a new bomb.

One night, a bomb dissolved to reveal a tiny piece of paper. On the paper was a poem. I had discovered the literary bath bomb.

Surprisingly, this tiny treasure didn’t inspire me to think about poetry; instead, I thought of cereal again. It made me nostalgic for my Gen X childhood, back when tiny prizes came buried in boxes of cornflakes. My brother and I used to race through the paper grocery bags to locate the cereal boxes, not for nourishment, but for an excavation. Sugary crumbs would get stuck beneath our fingernails.

But the bath bomb would not stay wondrous for long. About three weeks into my new ritual, a friend informed me that LUSH had joined the antisemitism parade. I didn’t even bother to fact check this. The bombs had bombed. Even if LUSH had not joined the pro-terror rallies, I would forever associate them with Frosted Flakes and other crunchy substitutes of actual food. I was done.

But this sent me back to my original problem: Where could I find more wonder in middle age? Machu Picchu? Tiger’s Nest? The Northern Lights?

My friends, it’s neither easy nor cheap to arrive at such destinations.

And so, I’m here to cast a net across Substack:

Where do y’all find wonder nowadays?

Thanks for visiting.

xoxo Jen xoxo

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Clinging to time like it’s a precious resource…because it is.

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