"I like the public hot-tub at the hotels. I like when a guy is already in there, I say, "Hey, do you mind if I join you?" Then I go turn the heat up, and I add some carrots and onions."
— Mitch Hedberg
A couple mornings ago my phone sent me a reminder of a long-ago trip to Key West for Thanksgiving with P. We were in the hot tub out behind our guest house, and although it's obviously during the late afternoon our goofy, jolly expression strongly suggests a little cabernet had been flowing already. That's just how we roll on vacation.
Now Peg is Jonesing for her own hot tub at Wyldswood, which leads to the question of the morning: does one dare install a hot tub in a space that we'll share with guests?
P's suggested we place the thing out behind the master bedroom on our deck, an area that will rarely, if ever, be made available to anyone but us. Our reasoning is that there is a certain ick associated with the image of newlyweds crawling into our hot tub and, well, you know. I'm not sure the filter will be up for that sort of regular insult. We two oldsters are a little less of a threat.
But if the hot tub is reserved for us, it's not tax deductible because it's not a business expense. As an alternative basis for a write-off, Peg thought maybe we could claim it as a medical expense for my poor broken spine after years of pulling 9 G turns in the mighty Eagle, a real enough condition that burns a little between my shoulder blades as a write this, and which resulted in a metal plate and a handful of screws rattling around in my neck. On the other hand, I'm scared to death to take an overly creative approach to our tax returns, lest the IRS start pawing through our financial affairs. So I think if there's a hot tub in our future, we'll just eat the 35% discount a write-off would bring.
There's also the safety issue, knowing that our guests will mostly be under the influence of something or other, and hence more likely to kill themselves given a bubbly, hot toy. Our first night in Key West on that trip years ago, we immediately adjourned to the hot tub in the darkness of the back deck. I started feeling a little hot, and decided to hop up onto a perch along the rim of the tub. The only problem was that there was no shelf there for my ample behind, and I flew up and over the edge of the tub, waterlogged feet in the air, landing with a thud flat on my back, buck naked, on the deck several feet below.
Peg leapt out of the tub in a panic as I took inventory of my extremities. Left hand fingers present. Same for the right. I could wiggle my toes. All that fairly new hardware in my neck seemed not to have moved, a credit to Dr. Gaiser's carpentry skills. I sheepishly pulled myself upright, assured P I was okay, and the evening went on with a certain giddiness, knowing I'd narrowly missed becoming a quadriplegic.
That memory suggests that we and our insurance agent would all agree that maybe we should keep the hot tub as just a little perk for the innkeepers, us, as we transform this already magic spot into something amazing.
Those hot tub photos of P on my phone have me wishing it was nine hours from now and she was home from work. Our extended honeymoon continues.
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