El Ojo del Lago - December 2020

Slippery When Wet

By Margie Keane

T

here are many things one shouldn’t do after a certain age but, sadly, we don’t find this out until after we do them. Take, for instance, the romantic getaway my husband arranged for us.

As the ads for New Year’s Eve packages began appearing in our local paper, offering wonderful menus, dancing, and champagne toasts for $100 dollars and up, Tom said to me, “Let’s not spend a lot of money celebrating the New Year, okay?”

I have never enjoyed going to a club to celebrate, so I readily agreed. I started planning a nice,

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romantic dinner. But no! A few days before the end of the year, Tom informed me that we had reservations at a hotel on Pismo Beach, with a sunken tub, a fireplace, and a balcony so we could watch the sunset. And only $300.00!

“What happened to ‘Let’s not spend a lot of money’?” I asked.

He gave me his sexy smile and said, “We deserve some fun. We’ll get some candles and bubbles. The tub is supposed to be very large, so we’ll get naked and frolic amongst the bubbles.”

Okay, keep this picture in your mind. Tom is five-foot-ten and weighs in at 220. I myself am not

El Ojo del Lago / December 2020

a sylphlike creature. I smile when he suggests we “frolic amongst the bubbles.” God bless this romantic.

The hotel and the view from our balcony were both perfect. The sunken tub had a wide marble ledge surrounding it, and looked large enough for six people.

After a delicious dinner in the hotel’s dining room we returned to our suite and Tom suggested that I shed my clothes while he prepared the tub. When I walked into the “frolicking room,” there he was, submerged up to his chest, a lovely layer of bubbles floating around him. I eased myself down into the wonderful warmth on the opposite side of the pool and began to really appreciate his plan. I started imagining myself more as a Meryl Streep and less of a Queen Latifah. Amazing what a couple of martinis can do. I closed my eyes, and leaned back in the jasmine-scented waters.

Totally immersed in this lovely, warm fog, I heard Tom’s voice calling me. I opened my eyes but I couldn’t see him. Had I died and gone to heaven? All I could see was a huge white cloud. Wait! It wasn’t a cloud, I was staring at bubbles! I was surrounded by a wall of bubbles. Tom’s voice called to me again from be-

hind the wall. “It’s almost midnight.

I’m pouring our champagne.”

Great, more bubbles. I mowed my way through the bubble wall and together we toasted the New Year.

We frolicked until we got all pruney and I suggested we get out. Tom was by the side of the tub so he scooted up and was soon seated on the ledge. I had been paddling around toward the middle of the tub. I moved toward the side but because of the curved wall I slid back to the middle again. I tried once more but slipped right back.

Trying to hide my frustration, I asked, “Darling, why is the tub so slippery?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because the bubble stuff I used was foaming bath oil? Do you need some help?”

He was watching me, trying hard not to laugh, but I could see his belly twitching.

With menace in my voice I said, “Why don’t you just go into the other room, sweetheart? I’ll call you if I need you.”

Have you ever watched a walrus try to clamber up onto a dock, miss, slip back into the water, and roll around? Well, that was me— not a delightful little dolphin “frolicking amongst the bubbles,” but “Wilhelmina Walrus,” thrashing and rolling, fighting my way to the rim of the tub. Very, very un-sexy!

I finally managed to grab the ledge, haul myself up, and slither over the side of the tub to safety.

So, ladies, let me give you some advice. If your husband or lover suggests a romantic frolic amongst the bubbles, make sure there is NO oil in whatever you get to make bubbles.

Oil does not belong in your sunken tub.

Save it for your salad.

Margie Keane