The 11th Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Skinny Dip at Park City Mountain Resort

Posted by Amber on January 3, 2011

hottub (hottub)Some people have a propensity for making a lot of money.

Others for being great with kids.

Mine is for repeatedly getting locked out in precarious situations.

With the kids. And without any money.

A couple of years ago, my family stayed in a beautiful two-bedroom Town Lift Condominium in Park City. Our accommodations had all the luxuries of home with one huge bonus: a private hot tub on the deck. After hitting the slopes each evening, my husband and two children would soak our bodies as we overlooked the pulse of Park City's Historic District.

One night, we had been in the hot tub for about an hour when we decided to go to bed. My chivalrous husband Jamie hopped out of the tub to grab our towels inside. Or at least he tried--he turned the knob to the door and nothing happened.

After a chilly 5-second investigation, he surmised that the door was unlocked but the handle was loose and practically falling off its hinges. He jumped back in the hot tub to warm up before repeating his attempt-- multiple times.


So, there we were: roasting in the hot tub with two little kids and no apparent way to get back into our room. Realizing the situation could quickly turn dire, I called down to a pedestrian on Main Street. He obligingly went to the condo's lobby and had a staff member come out to assist us.

Kind of.

The staffer told us he would grab the key to our condo and let us back in. And then we waited. And waited. And waited. After about 15 minutes, I knew something was very wrong.

This was confirmed when the staffer stuck his head out the window of the neighboring condo.
“The door is locked,” he yelled.

No duh. Isn’t that what the hotel’s master key is for?
“I’m not talking about the dead bolt,” he expounded. “Someone put the chain on the door so we have no way to get in.”

That “someone” was me. My little attempt at safety proved to be quite the opposite.

I envisioned the fire department racing to the scene and a crowd gathering around snapping pictures as we were rescued. There would be a story in the local paper and I would be infamous…in my bathing suit. Not exactly Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition worthy.

Just as I was starting to have a panic attack, my  4-year-old daughter suggested she say a prayer. Shortly after she explained her mother’s incompetency to The Man Upstairs, the staffer was able to break into the condo.

Despite all the drama, it could have been worse. Later that night after the kids had gone to bed, Jamie and I were surreptitiously planning a little skinny dip of our own.

Talk about front-page exposés.


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