I continually amaze myself. But not in a good way.
Here’s the story.
Like a lot of you who straddle the border between “elegantly senior” and “structurally unsound,” I occasionally suffer from sciatica.
If you’ve had it, you know the sensation: an electric shock of pain that starts somewhere above your butt, races across the glutes, down the outside of your crepey, cellulite-ridden thigh, and finally detonates in your kneecap.
A lovely visual.
The problem with sciatica is that it’s stubborn. Sure, a handful of Ibuprofen — otherwise known as Old Man Candy — takes the edge off, but only temporarily. The key word is limited.
Stretching helps. If you find the right stretches, it can make a real difference. I hit the gym 4–5 days a week and usually spend about 20 minutes stretching afterward. Still, the pain in the ass continues — and I’m not referring to my neighbor.
So I decided I needed a hot tub.
Specifically, an inflatable El Cheapo Grand model.
Why inflatable?
I’m cheap. A “real” hot tub costs at least $5,000 and more realistically somewhere between “Are you insane?” and “Second mortgage.”
Inflatables don’t have molded seats or loungers. It’s just one big flat tub, which means I can actually stretch in the hot water.
Setup is simple: plug and play.
We used to have a real hot tub years ago, but when Machiko became sick, we stopped using it. The seals dried out, everything deteriorated, and when I eventually tried restarting it, the backyard looked like a side attraction at the Bellagio fountains in Las Vegas.
Anyway, thanks to the miracle that is Prime Shipping, Amazon delivered my brand-new SaluSpa Hawaii 4–6 Person Inflatable WiFi Hot Tub literally the next day.
Yes, WiFi.
Don’t judge me.
I set it up, filled it, connected it to the network like some kind of aging cyber-spa enthusiast, and fired it up. These inflatable beauties take about 24 hours to reach their maximum temperature of 104 degrees — a limit apparently imposed by THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT.
Personally, after years of Japanese onsen visits, I regard 104 degrees as “slightly enthusiastic soup,” but fine.
The next afternoon, after the gym, I was eager to try the tub and do my stretches.
Now, I’ve previously mentioned that my backyard is very private. So naturally I walked outside completely naked.
That’s right.
Nude.
In the buff.
Au naturel.
Starkers.
Or, as Ginger says: absolutely godlike and delicious.
Every pale and aging inch of me was on display. The meaty parts bounced. The jiggly parts jiggled. Reiko screamed and hid her eyes.
Still, the hot tub routine worked beautifully. The stretching helped immediately and I was beginning to feel rather pleased with myself.
Then it hit me.
I had forgotten to disable the backyard security cameras.
These are very good cameras. Crystal clear resolution. They catch everything.
Possums.
Squirrels.
Coyotes.
Old naked men entering inflatable hot tubs.
And naturally all footage uploads directly to “the cloud,” where I assume it is now available to cybercriminals worldwide.
My password — “backyardcamera1” — suddenly did not inspire confidence.
Nor did the fact the cameras were manufactured somewhere called Xianshuchingduyo, China.
And just that morning I had read an article explaining that hacking private security cameras was becoming extremely popular online.
So please consider this a public service announcement.
If you are casually browsing TikTok, Facebook, Instagram, Nextdoor, or some dark corner of Reddit and you happen to see a link titled:
“LIVE FEED: backyardcamera1”
DO NOT CLICK IT.
It’s something no Mauzer — or anyone else — should ever have to see.
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