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The Notes On The Spectrum discusses this chapter here: In Hot Water
I return to water. An essential element of life. A lifeline for me in good and bad times. In my late 20s and 30s, I had a small hot tub. 99% of the time, I was in it by myself, no bubbles, roof deck with a view. Peaceful prawn. I often got in the hot tub before the sun was up. Listening to downtown Austin, still buzzing at 5 am. The hum of the bustle and machinery building more towers, sweeping the streets, exhaling plumes of steam into the rising daylight.
I am still a prawn. I am on my third hot tub to comfort my human experience. I am not sure of the science, the heat, the blood boil encouraged, the muscles and aches, the “oh man, that’s hot” to “oh man, that feels good.” Some nights I don’t get in the water before bed. Most mornings find me listening for birdsong as my coffee percolates in the kitchen and the cats observe my odd ritual from the screened porch.
Cold water is also a tonic. More infrequently, for me. Why jump into the cold? The effect is even more immediate and full of “oh fuck this is cold” moments. It doesn’t take much. A quick dive into Barton Springs when the lifeguards aren’t watching. (They don’t like diving.) A few seconds of panic as my body reacts to the freeze. A stroke or two into the deeper water. Shiver, shimmy, and we’re done. A fast swim back to the ladder and I’m out. Sizzling with endorphins as my body does it’s own hyperthermic reboot. I hear the euphoria is similar to runner’s high.
I don’t run. I like runners. I’d maybe like to try a relationship with an athlete who is less enthusiastic about drinking. Or a musician. A writer. I fantasize about the next woman who is going to change my life for the better and forever. Do we all have those fantasies?
I know in my first marriage, to the Basque hellion, I was certain for a few days that I’d finally found home. I found hell. I learned, licked my wounds, and took a year off before running into an old high school crush. She was one of those church girls in high school. Beautiful smile, immaculate heart, and boobs for days. When I finally had her in my hot tub in the sky she took off her shirt to reveal… “What happened?”
“Oh,” she laughed. “I had breast reduction surgery. So I could run.”
Wait, she was a runner. And though our love did not endure, we gave it our best. We were ill-suited for success and yet effective at producing two pretty progeny. There was an insecurity lurking beneath the beauty and strength. Not as violent as my first starter marriage, but just as devastating.
Sure, I have emotional variability. I’m an artist. I thought be both understood that. We were both on antidepressants when we met. I fell asleep on the couch in her rental while she painted. We seemed to understand each other. Somewhere along the way, between courtship and two kids she began to doubt the security of the marriage. She had doubts. They ran away with her trust, her attachment, and ultimately her love. She went to see an attorney. She liked her options.
In one summer, I lost everything so quickly I collapsed into despair more deep and dark than I could comprehend. In some ways, I’m still climbing my way out to the hole. Debt from the divorce and subsequent smashing action she took, sending our cooperative divorce to the enforcement arm of the state of Texas. Nice move. Fucked me royally for well over ten years, until our youngest, my daughter, became eighteen. And finished high school, don’t forget. That added an unnecessary six months to the end of the grift. She did not need the money. She was making plenty of money. She wanted to hurt me. I guess it worked.
But why would you hurt the parent of your children? Adverse action is going to cause them to suffer, too. I learned this earlier than she did. While I was busy blasting out my anger and rationalisations on an anonymous blog, The Off Parent, she was getting married to the perfect partner. Stale. Neuro-challenged. And somehow their OCD dovetailed into some form of relationship. For most of the time, they did not live together. Even after they were married.
Then, one day, I stopped by my wife’s house, their house, I guess, to retrieve a tennis racket I had loaned to my daughter. I had a match at noon and I’d forgotten my tennis bag in Lockhart at my new girlfriend’s house. I was stopped in the driveway on my way into the house. This was new. The husband was in the front yard, they were doing yard work.
“You can’t go in,” she said.
“What? I’m just getting a racket Claire borrowed.”
“No.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t just walk into the house anymore. Things have changed.”
“Okay, can you get the racket for me? She said it was right in her closet.”
“No.”
“What? Why not?”
I think she was mad, her husband was mad, I pulled up in a black BMW, and my hot young girlfriend was in the front seat. Maybe it was for show. For her husband or my girlfriend, I don’t know. As detached as she is mentally from her emotions, it could’ve been a reflex. I imagine her saying to her husband, “Oh no you don’t! You don’t get to just drop by and run into the house.”
I had to go buy a tennis racket to make my match. At that moment, I understood it was not about logic and love. My ex-wife was brooding her wound that must still haunt her. She does not appear to be happy. She’s had to return to work after a big retirement announcement. I can only assume it’s because of the “house” project that lasted two years longer than expected. Hmm. Due to the husband’s obsessive revisions late at night, telling the architects how he wanted to make certain changes. He bought the software they were using for the plans and a faster desktop PC to run it. They went through three architects. I hear that’s tough, but not uncommon.
The last time I was investing in my cold plunges in Barton Springs I was also in peak form. I would be at the gate when the pool opened. Dive in and beat the traffic heading into work. I was working remotely. I wonder if a few plunges into the frigid water would do me good.
Not sure I need more tonic at the moment. But the rush afterwards is nice. Moreso, now that I don’t run.
I’m surprised sometimes when I don’t get in the hot tub after working a late shift or playing tennis. Lazy? Too lazy for hot water? Reminds me of that yuppie virus that went around, TTF. Too tired to fuck.
