In which I put the "hot" in "hot tub".

This weekend, Brad and I were lucky enough to spend some time out in the Hamptons with a few dear friends, a hot tub, and fridge full of grillable meats. We sat on the beach, we lazed by the pool, we ate at least ten different kinds of animal, and it was lovely.

Not so lovely, however, was waking up yesterday to discover that I had returned from the Hamptons not just with a terrific tan, but also with a new friend.

Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to Hot Tub Rash.

Note: The above is a WebMD photo, not a picture of my actual skin, because even I have some limits, goddamnit.

Apparently, hot tubs are more than just a bubbly recreational plaything that serve as the preferred hookup location for Jersey Shore residents and Bachelor contestants alike; they are readymade incubators for a very special bacteria, a bacteria that wants nothing more than to attach itself to your epidermis and chew on it until it looks like it belongs to a 17 year-old boy with a raging case of cystic acne.

Which is to say, guess what I look like right now.

Of course, it took me awhile to get to this point. At first, I had no fucking clue what was going on, which led me to spend the morning doing google image searches for "red spots all over body", which is not an activity I would recommend to anyone who wants to maintain a firm grip on his appetite, and which also led me to freak out when I decided that the thing my spots most resembled was not hives, and not bug bites, but boils.

Boils!

Dear readers, if you ever want to feel really bad about yourself, I cannot recommend enough deciding that you might have boils -- which not only means learning that the preferred treatment method is a technique called "lancing and draining", otherwise known as "stabbing the boil with a pointy stick", but also reading a series of painfully gentle suggestions that you avoid future boils by "attempting to practice good hygiene."

Because basically, if you've got boils, it's because you're a filthy motherfucker who doesn't bathe. No wonder they want to stab you.

Fortunately, a few more tumbles down the google-search rabbit hole led me to the truth: I don't have boils. I do, however, have Hot Tub Rash, which is not exactly better. Especially since, even though it's apparently insanely freaking common, there's no treatment for it.

"Don't worry!" the websites say, as you desperately scroll to the subheader marked Treatment. "In most cases, hot tub rash will clear on its own within 7-10 days."

Yes, that's right kids, only seven to ten days! That's great, right? I mean, you weren't doing anything this weekend anyway, were you?

Of course, that didn't stop me from going to the doctor -- which is really the only place you can go when your entire face is covered in something that looks like nuclear chickenpox. And of course, the doctor had never heard of hot tub rash and was convinced that there was some other explanation.

Doctor: You haven't had any changes to your diet?
Me: No.
Doctor: Allergies?
Me: No.
Doctor: Spider bites?
Me: I'm not the most observant person in the world, but I think even I would have noticed if at some point this weekend my entire body was covered in spiders.
Doctor: It could have been one big spider.
Me: Fuck spiders! HOW MUCH LONGER AM I GOING TO LOOK LIKE THIS?!
Doctor: I'll give you some Cipro.

And she did.

But still, chances are that I'll be confined to my apartment for the next week and a half while my skin does its best impression of a pizza. Which is great, really, because not only have I always wanted to spend my wedding anniversary covered in nuclear pustules, but because it'll give me ample time to participate in my new favorite activity of lying on the floor, in the fetal position, in a puddle made up of equal parts cortisone cream and my own tears.

Also, if anyone knows of any good movies currently available on Netflix instant, now would be an excellent time to share.