May 1 is an important date in our family. That is the date that the pool opens, and which – more importantly – the date that the hot tub opens. We are at the gate, pool key in hand, most weekend mornings the minute the gate opens. (It’s on an electric timer, so if you try at 8:57, it won’t open. We’ve tried.)
The second the gate opens, we set out our towels and such at a nearby table, turn the hot tub dial all the way around, and sink into the hot water. Ahhh!
Sometimes there are other neighbors visiting the pool area. We have a nodding relationship with several, and we’ve had lovely conversations with others as we sit amongst the bubbles. There’s something very informal about being in a bathing suit, soaking in hot bubbly water, with other people similarly attired and occupied. It breaks down a layer of guardedness, letting you slip past the pleasantries and get into more real conversations pretty easily. It could be the proximity, too – where are you going to go? The tub is only so big.
We’ve met neighbors with kids our kids’ ages and commiserated about those milestones that are exciting for the kids and terrifying for the parents (driver’s license permit, anyone?) or celebrated victories like sports championships or scholarships.
We’ve met neighbors with kids younger than ours, and reminisced about milestones long since passed – lost teeth, first bikes, swimming lessons, or changing school campuses with the upcoming promotion. We’ve met older neighbors who have tantalizing opportunities — going to the hot tub every morning, not just weekends – or stories of travel, grandkids or memories of Windsor back in the day.
Sometimes we are the only people there, and we talk about stuff. We might discuss the week ahead and lay out the rough plans of what is happening and when.
We might have philosophical discussions about where we would go if we could go anywhere in the world. (Actually, that’s what I like to do; Matt is Mr. Practical, and he often sidesteps the what-if for what-is by pointing out that we can think about trips when I have a full-time job. If pressed, however, he can sometimes enter into the wouldn’t-it-be-cool world and we can daydream about visiting certain Hawaiian islands, or big cities, or a new-to-us hotel in Las Vegas.)
We talk about our kids, and our parents, and our siblings; we talk about memories, and plans, and connections. Sometimes we check in with each other:
“How’s your neck?”
“Still sore, but I can turn it a little more in this direction now. How’s your sciatica?”
“A little better today. I have a jet aimed at it right now.”
(We are old, and getting older.)
When the hot tub timer goes off, and the bubbles fade away, we have three choices: get out and get going, sit in the quiet water, or restart the bubbles. It’s a tough choice, but we usually have to get going on our day.
There are showers to take and things to do. The timing of the pool schedule is already smack dab in the middle of our morning – we’ve been up since 6, puttering around until we can get in the gate – so 9:30 feels like the day is half gone. But even with that schedule juggling, the hot tub visit is too important to skip.
Yes, the hot water is nice, and yes, the jets soothe our various aches and pains and stiffness and general aged-ness, but the real value is the time together. There’s a lovely connectedness after a hot tub morning, regardless of whether we shared the experience with others or simply sat in the quiet, together, eyes closed against the tiny pops of misty bubbles.
It’s a few minutes with life on pause, and it leaves us relaxed and rejuvenated. We may not be visiting Kauai anytime soon, and the Bellagio can wait for a booking for a long, long time, but for half an hour on a weekend – at least until October 31 — we have an escape valve that serves us well.
Juliana LeRoy wears many hats, including wife, mother, paraeducator and writer. She can be spotted around Windsor gathering material, or reached at ml****@so***.net.
