I sit “Indian style” at my monthly We R Men, Chapter 138, meeting and silently prepare Co let my brothers in on one of my greatest secrets. We’ve beaten the drum, chatted about the “hairy man” screaming to get out, and now we sit in a circle, in our makeshift loincloths, ready for confessional. This is the time when we men talk about moments of weakness. In other words, when we feel as though we are sinking in that sensitive abyss of borderline femininity. A fat guy draped in a faux leopard skin, more closely resembling a bath mat than a pelt, begins by telling us that, while shopping, he had to carry his wife’s purse and he actually “kind of liked it.” The group grumbles. The wiry guy next to me takes his turn, bringing up the fact that lipstick works better than Blistex, and it comes in more colors. I sense an opening.
“I like to take bubble baths,” I chime in with confidence. A hush falls over the group as a collective look of disgust comes over their faces.
That’s right, 1 like to take bubble baths. I am what you might call a “horizontal bather.” But before you judge me as a sissy, wuss, or worse, “a ’90s type of guy,” let me explain myself. When 1 say bubble bath, it’s not what you think. Don’t picture me giggling and sipping champagne in a forest of luxurious suds as depicted in layouts and films by vintage bombshells like Marilyn Monroe and Betty Page.
My bathtub is not a place of opulence, femininity, or giddiness; for me, it is a place of manliness and reflection. You won’t find me languishing in rose-scented bubbly water, giggling at the silliness of the work while sipping Dom Perignon. My tub is filled with hearty bubbles with a manly, foresty, musky scent, and if something is amusing I guffaw a loud, manly guffaw, and if I indulge in libations it’s usually a good tequila, no salt or lime. Sometimes I even add a cigar to the mix just like Clint Eastwood did in A Fistful oF Dollars, or maybe a woman will join me like the one who joined James Gamer for a back scrub in Support Your Local Gunfighter. My bath is a place to be a man.
The warm bath waters are also sacred, serving as a Zen-like place of meditation and reflection much like the tree was to Siddhartha. It’s a place to get away from all my manly problems. The bubbles surround and soothe me as I call out, “Calgon, take me away!” The day’s tribulations-“What game am I going to bet tonight? How should 1 order my steak? What kind of gun should I buy? Will she call?”-all dissipate into the calming mixture of soap, hydrogen, and oxygen. I am at peace in my bubble bath and 1 emerge recharged, able to fight the fight of living, living like a man.
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