I learned a great lesson last week in a Holiday Inn bathtub: Don’t be sucked into situations I can’t escape.
I had worked all day in a small Midwestern town. Not as long and hard as I used to, but I managed to exhaust my 77-year-old muscles and bones. Actually, I was pretty proud of myself.
Then it appeared. The low-slung tub in the tiny bathroom of room 226 of the Holiday Inn. I earned it. No shower for me tonight. I’m going to soak. Getting in was an athletic feat. The tub was not long, nor wide, nor deep.
It was an hour of bliss.
When I was ready to get out, I couldn’t find a way to do so. I hadn’t noticed there were no handles or bars to grab hold of. The edge of the tub was thin, with no room to steady my elbows and forearms. The bottom of the tub was soapy and slick. Surgeries on my back and hips restricted any clever acrobatic moves. Silly me, the towels were out of reach.
There I sat in my Holiday Inn bathtub. Do I shout for help? Do I wait for maid service? No, they only come by every third day nowadays. Hours slip by, and my thoughts turn dark. Maybe I will just shrivel up and die or drown in this shallow, porcelain grave. I could just see the headlines in the local weekly paper.
What would you do?
My final solution was too embarrassing for even me to divulge.