When on vacation with friends of a certain age, I find we are on different pages in terms of our interests and willingness to take on risk. For some of us–okay–for me, I prefer to pace myself by moseying, always moseying over to the pool. Perhaps a little saunter out to the balcony or deck, or screened in back porch. Shopping, well, yes, but as the sun sets, not during the heat of the day. A nice sprawl in front of the TV anytime.

Mornings I search for clues of the rapture, because by the time I arise the place is empty and devoid of human life except my own, as I slink — inside I slink–to the coffee maker, retrieve a mug, as long as it is sitting shoulder height or lower. My friends are out walking, biking, I don’t know what all, but more power to them.

Often on vacation there will be a hot tub, either attached to the place we are staying or in the lovely commons area out by the pool. One particular friend loves a hot tub about all things, especially at resorts and she keeps hitting the button–that one there, just below the red warning sign indicating the need to limit time in the hot tub. As wanton as a hussy she ignores the admonition and overcooks and why don’t I join her, what a great way to chat with people and find out good restaurants? No. I am pretty sure hot tubs kill.

And now we have proof, this cautionary tale from out to the east of us.
Two women, both in their eighties, were enjoying the hot tub at the cabin where they were staying with friends for a girls’ trip. When they tried to get out, they couldn’t. Mobility issues, pre-existing conditions, every news outlet reported. They became overheated, as you do, and then became unresponsive. Their friends couldn’t retrieve them either, but managed to jump in and hold their unconscious heads above water until help arrived — at their remote cabin in a remote area of Red River Gorge, and both women came close to succumbing to their relaxing dip in the hot tub.

Trips to the hospital packed in ice revived them, but still.

What were they thinking?

What are my buddies thinking when they keep adding time to the hot tub when the big red signs say not to. I joined them once, and when I got out on the trembly legs of a new-born fawn, I walked three feet and thought I might faint. Explain to me the appeal. I won’t even sit with my feet dangling over the side, anymore.

And I am not eighty.

But I am not a spring chicken, either. And since last December I have had a horrifying glimpse of what it is like to have “mobility” problems, what with a hip flexor injury taking its own sweet time to heal, and all the accompanying aches and pains that come with it–the over-stressed knee that has never caused me problems, until now. The knotted up rhomboid in my back that reacts to my bad posture and my ungainly gait, the one that likes to kick into spasm just as I drift off to sleep.

So, I am not without sympathy, but surely some common sense might be in order.

In exactly one month I will be on my own girls’ trip, in a large house somewhere near the Bourbon Trail, with its own hot tub, I imagine. There will be discussions about who should have what bedroom because this one can’t do stairs, that one wakes early and needs to be close to the coffee pot, another one hardly sleeps at all and needs to wander the premises all night long.

Not to be a spoiled sport, but I would rather not be called upon to hold one of their heads above water until the squad arrives. I would do it. But I would resent it. Because, forget about the temperature for moment, what about the quality of that water and all those flesh eating bacteria?

What about those?

No, I believe I will continue to mosey, to slink and to sprawl on fat furniture. I will swim in the big garden tub in my room, I’ll relax, sitting on my spine, reeking of Tiger Balm, and catch up on Netflix.

Y’all have fun out there in that tub, and keep 911 on speed dial. I’ll let them in if I’m getting up for snacks.