Fall is my favorite time of year. As the evenings take on that autumnal chill, I take comfort in knowing it's almost time to get really fat.

Nature insists that we fatten up in winter. As I write this sentence, I see a squirrel gathering nuts in my yard. He knows he'll survive all winter without anybody noticing how chubby he's getting. He'll change into his fat-squirrel pants (taken out of storage each October) and chow down on those fattening nuts as soon as the snow starts falling. Underneath those gaudy Christmas sweaters, who cares if a squirrel's the size of Dom DeLouise?

But this year, I can't engage in my usual gluttony. I'll be in swimming trunks as the snow falls. See, my new house has a hot tub on the back deck, and I don't want to hear cries of "Shamu!" as I get out of the tub this winter.

Few words can conjure such a sense of luxury as the words "hot tub". Go ahead, try for yourself. Say, "Pardon me Ferdinand, but I simply must tear myself away from this shiatsu massage and retire with a scotch to the hot tub."

How'd it feel? Don't you just feel special now? And I bet you nearly added, "Carleton, I wonder what the poor people are doing tonight?" Unlike many of those privileged words of luxury — and here I'm thinking "caviar", "gout", and "coffee enema" — many of us poor people actually enjoy hot tubs.

So you can understand my excitement when I moved into my new house — the house with a hot tub!

"Jacuzzi," the girl at the pool supply store corrected me.

"Actually, it's a spa," the owner of the pool supply store corrected the girl.

"Huh?" This last was me, to nobody in particular, as nobody in particular seemed to be making sense.

The owner continued. "Jacuzzi is a type of spa, just a brand name really. And a spa is a hot tub, but with water jets."

"Oh, I see," even though I didn't. "So a hot tub is just, what, hot water?"

"Exactly."

"Which means, the last time I had a bath, you would call that . . . "

"I'd call it too long ago, sir. Really, you smell."

Not surprising. I'd spent the entire day sweating in the sun, trying to get my hot tub (I don't care what it's supposed to be called) working. The previous owners had left the hot tub in disrepair, which I discovered after filling it. Or rather, after filling the hot tub and having all the water leak out. Which came after hours spent repairing the wires disconnected by the previous owners, wiring I now presume was disconnected for fear of electrocution by leaky hot tub.

See, there's an unglamorous side to hot tubs. They're in need of constant attention, but unlike your high school boyfriend, you can't dump it. (Though you could drain it, I suppose.)

The pool supply store loaded me down with enough chemicals to kill Tommy Chong. They came with instructions like, "Three times a week, unless it's a month with 5 Mondays, use four tablespoons of bromine for every 200 thrombosis of Aqua Velva," and, "There's a relationship between alkalinity and pH, alkalinity asked pH out to the prom but alkalinity was already dating calcium hardness, and the anti-foaming solution was like, 'Oh no he didn't!'".

Right. So I threw in a bunch of chemicals. After hours fixing the hot tub, all I cared about was getting into the darned thing!

And trust me, it was fantastic! In fact, I may not even worry about how my beer gut looks this winter. Not while I'm covered with all these red bumps and painful pustules!

If your hot tub's pH is out of whack, the water can cause a terrible, rash-like infection and it only took a few days before I broke out in something awful. On the bright side, I can't go into the hot tub for a while, so I can eat all the pumpkin pie I want without worrying about how I look.

Who knew hot tubs could be so luxurious?

Copyright © 2006 Andy Murphy
Please do not remove the copyright from this work.

Send by Email! | Contact Us! | Permanent Link