Fair warning… this post is just a tiny bit TMI. But push yourself forward, friends, because I’ve discovered something else my brain isn’t good at, yet.

This past week, we made a quick trip to visit my mother-in-law; just an overnight visit to take care of some things. Hubby made a hotel reservation and surprised me with a room that had a hot tub in it. WOOHOO!!! I have generally avoided tubs except for very rare occasions; when I was much heavier and my knees hated me, bathtubs were a nightmare. Hot tubs are roomier, thank goodness.

We’ve stayed at this particular hotel, before; it has an outdoor hot tub that’s simply fun to be in when the weather turns cold, but it’s currently out of order. Our plan had been to spend time swimming and then head to the room and enjoy an adult beverage in the hot tub, which we did.

Mind you, outdoor and larger hot tubs have steps into them, so they really haven’t been an issue for me, but the type in the hotel room meant stepping over the edge, as well as the ability to push up without sliding across the tub. I managed to get up and out of the tub several times with no issues… until hubby let me sit in the tub, alone, with a bath bomb.

I’ve never used a bath bomb, before; I don’t use the tub at home, only the shower. But I picked one up at a specialty shop when we were at a historic hotel a couple weeks ago, in anticipation of using it, there, but circumstances just didn’t work out that way. So I saved it for this trip and threw it in. And guess what? When you turn on the jets in a hotel hot tub, you get bubbles! I got a bubble bath!

I felt a bit like a kid again. Yes, I’ve had the occasional bath at hotels in recent years; I just like their tubs better than I like my own. But a bubble bath? Ooooh, y’all, I was in bubble heaven! And the bath bomb made my skin nice and soft.

And made the floor and walls of the hot tub nice and slick. Oops.

This meant I needed to get out of the tub differently than I had been because I had no traction at all. I’d have to —HORRORS — get on one knee and then up. My youngest knee is days away from being a year old, and while I’ve gone down on a knee one time to plug something in under a table, I just have avoided doing this. Everything in me screamed DO NOT DO THAT, STUPID.

Hubby had to help me out, but I did get on one knee and no one had to call emergency services to hoist my naked butt out of there. Thank goodness.

I was mortified and sort of ticked off at myself at the time, but have managed to laugh about it, since. I know that my brain has spent most of my life giving me signals on what it sees as my current state; that’s part of self-preservation, but it hasn’t fully adjusted, yet, to replacing original equipment with new and improved bionic knees — and a body that’s more capable of handling them.