It’s a terrible thing when you cannot enjoy the luxury of a weekend at a state park resort, but this is the position in which I found myself. Normally, a weekend away from home is an adventure to look forward to, but on this particular weekend my honey’s fantasy football league was having a party at the resort.
To say that I don’t like football is to understate the matter. To state that I HATE football is closer to the truth, but still not quite passionate enough to express the true depth of my feelings. Of course, there was this hot tub at the resort where I could soak away my displeasure and sooth my arthritic bones in liquid warmth. So, yes, I would make the ultimate sacrifice and go to this football party, I thought, as the hot tub called my name.
We arrived and I dutifully went to the testosterone saturated party room. There was food — so I ate. They passed out trophies — so I took pictures. So far, so good. Then it was time for the customary playing of poker and watching of football on TV.
The hot tub called my name even louder than before. “Is it okay if I leave now?” I asked my honey.
I slipped away to change into my bathing suit. Unfortunately, the only bathing suit I had was at least ten years old. I didn’t bother to try it on before I came as I had to wear it; I didn’t have another one. I managed to squeeze into the bathing suit, but my tummy wouldn’t suck in enough to keep my flab from showing. Oh, well, it’s dark outside. Maybe no one will see. I must remember to go shopping for a swimsuit with one of those little skirts, the kind that old ladies wear.
As I arrived at the pool, I realized that my hopes for privacy were lost. Sitting on the side of the hot tub were three plump ladies in shorts with their feet soaking in the tub. I nearly turned around and went back, but the hot tub was screaming my name and my arthritis was throbbing.
I opened the pool door. “How’s the water, ladies?” They didn’t seem any more thrilled at my interruption than I was at their presence. I wondered if they were looking at my flab. However, they were all so overweight that none of them could possibly wear a bathing suit, even if they sucked in and held their breath forever.
The hot water felt wonderful as I submerged in it up to my neck. “This is great for my arthritis!” I didn’t know that I was in the hot tub with three witches until they lit up their cigarettes. They had to be witches! Who in their right mind would smoke in a hot tub except a witch?
“Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble.” The water bubbled and the steam rose into the cool night air. The witches cackled and continued their conversation, ignoring my presence. I tried to relax, but the water seemed to become hotter and hotter and the smoke thicker.
“Fire burn, and caldron bubble.” Finally, I knew I had to get out or pass out. I decided to call it a night. “You ladies have a nice evening,” I said as I made my exit, stage left.
“How was the hot tub?” my honey asked me later.
“Oh, it was a bit crowed, so I didn’t stay long.” I didn’t mention my narrow escape from the witches’ brew. My honey is a realist and he would have said it was my imagination working overtime.
But, witches are every bit as real as fantasy football teams, and nobody questions their reality.
Humor Columnist Blog 