Likely Normal

Let us address the great, bubbling taboo of hydrotherapy: the hot tub is a vessel of relaxation, not a fondue pot. It is a temple of warm, chlorinated serenity, and your buffalo wing is not an offering it will accept.

The fundamental rule is this: The hot tub is a drinking zone, not an eating one. This is not a snobbish distinction, but a practical one born of grim experience. That vague, broth-like quality the water has begun to develop? That is the spectral essence of a hundred lost meatballs, the dissolved memory of a rogue nacho chip. You are not soaking in minerals; you are marinating in the ghost of someone’s poorly planned snack.