After handball Thursday afternoon, I’d intended just to shower and return to work, but the siren’s song of the hot tub at Timberhill Athletic Club was too strong to resist and thus did I  immerse myself in the pleasingly hot water.

The good news, of course, was that TAC had a hot tub — actually, there are two of them there; I prefer the larger one, mainly because it’s by windows and thus affords a view of sorts — and that unlike the steam room, which I only use when I have a cold, the tub was fully functional Thursday.

The bad news is that other people were using it too, which meant I had to subject myself to the jets that create the gurgling, frothy whirlpool effect.

How’s that, you say?

Well, it’s like this:

Seemingly unlike most people, I would much rather the jets stay off. They just don’t do a thing for me. I have never once found myself thinking, wow, the jet that is right now hitting my back, arm, leg whatever feels just fantastic.

Quite the contrary: When the jets are on, which they always are unless I happen to be in the tub alone — which does thankfully happen every now and then — I basically try to situate myself such that none of them make contact with any part of me.

All I want is the hot water. That’s it.

Invariably, if I am in the tub by myself, sans jets, someone will ask if I want the jets turned on.

If I can tell they are not going to get in, I say no. If it seems they are going to get in, I tell them to go ahead and turn them on if they want to.

It just doesn’t seem right of me to deprive anyone of that, even though I was there first.

In addition to the jets’ impact that I find unpleasant,  there’s also the noise factor; as in, the jets are loud.

And that bubbly foam is also something I can do without; I never aspired to swim/bathe in a mug of A&W root beer.

One day a few months ago, one of the TAC staffers walked over to the tub and sprinkled something into it. I have no idea what it was, but it magically made at least most of the foam disappear.

“That’s pretty cool,” I remarked to a woman who was also in the tub.

“It is,” she said. “But it sort of makes me wonder: What exactly is that foam, anyway?”

“Probably best just not to think about it,” I said.

After exiting the tub, showering and dressing Thursday, I happened to shoot the breeze for a few  minutes with another woman who, like myself, is a regular exerciser and a veteran of many hot tub soakings. I mentioned how I preferred the tub best in its non-whirlpool form.

“So do I,” she said.

That surprised me, because I really thought I was the only one in the world who felt the way I did.

“But I wouldn’t necessarily want to sit in a public hot tub without the jets on with anyone else in there, because people can you and you can see them when the water isn’t moving.”

“I’d never really thought about that,” I said. “Of course, at least half the time I’m using the tub, it’s on a day where I’m wearing glasses and not contacts, and when I take off my glasses to go in the tub, I really can’t see anything anyway.”

Which brings us to a sort of humorous anecdote that will serve as this post’s conclusion:

In December 1993, long story short, my family made a trip to Southern California that included a trip to Disneyland, a visit with my sister Sandy, a Broncos-Chargers game, and a heavily discounted stay at a very nice hotel in San Diego.

The place included, unsurprisingly, a hot tub. It was next to a swimming pool, outdoors — it was San Diego, after all — in the middle of a courtyard.

Myopically approaching the tub, I misjudged the layout of the steps leading into it and thus stumbled into a swan dive of sorts that basically landed me in the lap of another hotel guest.

Really, she took the whole thing with remarkable aplomb.

I mean, she didn’t ask which room I was staying in, but then she didn’t call security either, so I just settled in and tried to piece my dignity back together.

I think I mainly succeeded