A few days ago, I visited a close friend at a senior citizen community in Florida. She has a lovely home and was anxious to show me her recent addition-- a new walk-in bathtub. She had it installed in the guest bedroom figuring she could use it anytime she didn't have friends or family staying with her. Excited to share the new addition with me, she pointed out the many features of her purchase, much like the slick-talking salesman who sold her the tub must have done. Ten jets. Easy open door. Comfy seat. Hand-held shower head. The dream of anyone with aches and pains. A "convenient and easy-to-use" jet tub. Having enjoyed a hot tub for many years, I was excited to try an easy-enter bathtub that didn't require me to lift my leg above my head in order to get in it.
Just before I retired to bed, I stripped down, opened the door of the walk-in tub, lit a couple of candles, poured a glass of wine, turned off the lights and began my adventure. Closing the water-tight door, I wedged myself into the seat quickly realizing my friend must have purchased the "petite" tub, a size I haven't seen since birth. I turned on the water, and adjusted the temperature. For the first 45 minutes I waited for the tub to fill sipping my wine slowly when I realized I'd be there awhile.. Being many of the jets were knee-high or higher, I couldn't turn on the pump, so I figured I'd try using the hand-held shower to warm me up while the water continued to flow. For the next 30 minutes I draped the shower head around my neck and shifted it from front to back figuring I could at least rinse off.
Then I gaged the level once more. The water was nearing my calf. I realized that I'd probably be in the tub until morning before the water rose to a level where I could use the jets. I decided to slide off the seat, squatting in the pocket of water at my feet. The trick worked and the displaced water rose, but I was cramping. My face was wedged between my knees and my arms were now pinned to my sides. By now the running water was getting cold and my wine was gone. My fingers, as well as my butt were pruned. Wiggling back and forth I was able to jerk my right hand free and reached to pull myself upright. My fingers accidentally pressed the bubbler and I took a jet stream of cold water to my backside that sent me reeling into the wall in front of me, knocking the candle, my only light, into the tub.
It's was pitch-black and I've had a lump on my head the size of a turnip. I felt around for the handles of the faucet and twisted them to turn the water off. Worn out, I slapped my rear back to the seat gasping and heaving, the jets still spitting at me. Even after two hours of running water, the liquid had yet to reach my thighs. I grabbed the lock on the tub before realizing that the tub needed to be empty before I could release the lock and escape. I pulled the plug, felt around for the switch to shut off the jets and waited.
I could see the sun rising from under the door crack before the last of the water swirled from the tub. I tried to stand to unlock to open the door, but my knees buckled and I dropped again. I called for my friend knowing my feeble warble could never rouse her from her sleep. Suddenly, I realized I might never get out. The design of the tub made it impossible to sit and open the door at the same time. Nor could I stand and open the door. Even if I could get the darn thing open, I'd have to stand on the seat, bend near in half to reach the door handle and pull it open as my behind suctioned to the wall!
I managed to detach myself from the wall by noon the next day, but only after my friend kicked in the bathroom door and woke me from a stupor, one leg hiked over the "easy and convenient" tub door, the other propped up on the seat. I looked like I was riding a donkey.
All tolled, I spent a good 13 hours in that tub and came out looking worse than I went in. It is obviously not the tub for me. Then again, I'm technically challenged. Maybe this tub was just too much for me.Imagine, if you will, the sales pitch I could give for this thing! I'd call it a coffin, not a tub. You can tell a man designed this "convenient and easy-to-use" bathtub that only costs $10,000. Bet no one ever tried it out before pitching it to every old person on earth. I guess it's an easy way to get rid of us. Probably thought up by our children. Not that I'm bitter or anything.
In the end, I survived the thing, but I'm showering from now on!
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