I have to get this off my chest.
I hate hot tubbing. I hate to admit it, but it’s true. I can only assume if you invite me to hot tub you must hate me, because I genuinely don’t know how a person can just throw on a bikini and toss their hair up in a bun and opt out of wearing mascara for the sake of settling into a glorified toilet “for fun”. Sounds like a real blast.
If I’m getting within 500 yards of a body of water I need NOTICE, and if it’s a hot tub I need to start a very strict regimen of AZO cranberry pills two weeks in advance with a Monistat chaser for good measure. I need to handle my body hair from mustache to big toe. MUSTACHE. TO BIG TOE. I need to apply self-tanner and do my best to get my entire back knowing I’ll absolutely miss that center section and then give it a full night to marinate before I rinse.
And that’s just the physical part.
Mentally, I need to prepare myself to be basically NUDE around people in a social setting because for some sick twisted reason, someone many years ago decided that the act of hot tubbing was “fun”. And if there’s a GROWN UP THERE? (See 1 below.) An aunt, uncle, or grandparent? I’m showing up in a wetsuit because they can’t know I have boobs. It just doesn’t feel right. (See 2 below.)
Upon arrival, I then need to pray that my fake tan behaves herself and doesn’t start flaking off, parading herself around the surface of the hot tub like a 7th grader who just got her belly button pierced by her weird friend who’s probably in jail now.
Before descending into the pee (see 3 below), I must will my messy bun to mess the right way, knowing full well she only obeys my wishes when she knows she won’t be seen, and when she knows she will be seen, she ends up looking like a round little turd proudly perched on my head. And even if I decide to just sit on the warm, wet (pee?) edge of the hot tub and dip my feet in, I then need to worry about the way the water warps my feet and makes my bunions look extra huge, wondering if anyone can tell that my pedicure is a month old. All this mental anguish because I was FORCED to hang out in this warm trauma trough so that people think I’m “fun”, maybe even “a good time”, and that I don’t have a stick up my wetsuit-covered ass, so that maybe just maybe I can be invited to the next thing and actually make real life friends in LA who do real life activities (aside from hot tubbing).
Anyways. If you want to hang out with me this summer and hot tub, I need 5-7 business days to therapize myself into showing up. It took me 15 years to convince myself that my stretch marks are really just ~*sexy tiger stripes*~ from all the times I was fat and then unfat, so give me a second, okay?