Hot Tubs

Although no holy scripture explicitly states it, every day should end with a toasty, bubbly seat in a hot tub. I think that's the way God designed us. How do I know? Because it feels too darn good for that to not be true.

Hot tubs are proof that we humans, to a certain extent, were created to periodically be pampered. We require an occasional wallow in a lethargic, carefree salute to the bodily senses. Hence the congenital need for hot tubs. (Doesn't "Jacuzzi" just sound like an onomatopoeia for the sound of a body relaxing?)

Unfortunately, I don't own a hot tub. Double-unfortunately, I don't have access to one either. So, in order for me to submerge myself in the warm effervescence of a hot tub, I either have to befriend the right people and invite myself over or be on vacation at a destination with such a convenient amenity.

Now, the friends' hot tubs I trust. I have virtually zero problem with the friends' hot tubs -- so long as they are good, clean people and understand the delicate nuances of properly treating and caring for a hot tub.

It's the vacation destinations' hot tubs that make me cringe.

Why? They're public. Any Joe Shmoe can jump in there, suitably swimsuited or Adam-and-Eved, and blend his carnal chemicals with the foamy hot tub's, forming a more imperfect union of dirt, grime, and dare I say fecal matter floating and merging and boiling together into an unknown, vile layer of film atop the water that resembles Mickey Rourke's complexion.

If that was disgusting to read, then I've painted a very accurate portrayal of the thoughts behind my sour facial contortions upon approaching one of these public hot tubs. Hey, I don't know the history of that hot tub. I don't know the rigor with which the staff custodian cleans the impurities of that hot, germ-friendly water. Maybe it's because I've gone to beaches, hotels, and resorts with less-than-constrained friends too many times, but my immediate thoughts when nearing a public hot tub, like when I first enter my hotel room, scream, "What just happened here? What is the story of this tub? What do I not know about and don't want to know about but am nevertheless wondering about? What were its previous occupants wearing? Anything? Were they just talking? Were they a romantic couple? Or just a couple of friends? Or a couple of friends who were getting romantic -- with complete strangers??"

This is what races through my head when the hot tub is vacant. It takes all of three seconds. And if the hot tub actually has people -- total strangers -- in it, whoa... forget about it, buddy.

That's about the time I turn around and dive in the swimming pool instead. Only to emerge for air with a floating clump of leaves and tangled strands of a stranger's long, detached hair on my face.