My bidet Is the most emotionally supportive member of my household. It’s the only thing in my bathroom that doesn’t lie to me. I’m talking to you, mirror and scale. No, I do not look like my father, and I am not one Subway sandwich away from a medical intervention!
The bidet does what needs to be done with no lying, no judging, no life lessons I didn’t request.
I recently had half-joking, half-terrifying conversations with my 15-year-old daughter about what she’d be willing to do for me in my final days. Only one limit emerged: wiping my ass. She will never do that under any circumstances. And I respect that.
But it’s also why I now love my bidet more than my daughter.
I had seen bidets in luxury hotels next to the toilet as separate porcelain units looking like they require a tuxedo and a European passport. But I never felt a deep need for plumbing that challenged the masculinity I can barely hold onto as it is.
Up to that point, I lived my entire life under the unwavering belief that my backside was an exit-only situation. When my friend’s father first attempted to challenge that belief with his finger, it was the moment I discovered boundaries.
Oh, sorry, did I not mention that my friend’s father was also my pediatrician? Yes, I discovered my first set of boundaries in a brightly lit exam room decorated with cartoon giraffes. (Talk about awkward barbecues at your friend’s parents’ house.)
Then last year, I visited my friend Michael. After we drank a few beers, I went to his bathroom, and there it was—my very first non-luxury-hotel bidet.
Michael, unlike me, is a real man. He likes his steaks rare and rebuilds music equipment for fun. We used to play in a band together. He commanded the keyboard like Billy Joel; I sang like someone who once heard Billy Joel.
If he had a bidet, anyone could.
His wasn’t a $5,000 standalone unit. It was a $300 Costco seat attachment that looked like something my grandfather used right before he died. Still, I’ve never heard Michael speak so passionately about anything.
“Dude, you don’t need toilet paper ever again!” he said, eyes blazing. “It gets you cleaner than paper ever did. And if you have hemorrhoids,” he added, looking deeply into my eyes as he grabbed my shoulders, “you will never have them again.”
Michael invited me to try his bidet. I thought that was extending the concept of hospitality too far.
To me, there’s not enough bleach in the world to adequately sanitize a metal cylinder that has recently washed the final frontier of someone who isn’t a member of my nuclear family. And by recently, I mean in the past five years.
By the way, it’s safe for me to pretend not to be grossed out by the back-porch germs of my wife and daughter because both have vowed never to use a bidet. The truth is, they think it’s gross; and I think that’s just fine.
So I did some internet sleuthing and bought a bidet of my own. It was a different brand than the one Michael recommended, but there was little risk because you can return anything to Costco at any time you want for any reason—a policy that still blows my mind.
And it wouldn’t be the first poop-caked item I returned. Once, I took back a Roomba that didn’t see the dog present under the bed that the box it came in promised it would.
I did my best to clean it out; and by that I mean rubbing a paper towel lightly over the device’s undercarriage before quickly giving up due to the smell. Yet the kind Costco lady looked at it, placed it in the take-back pile behind her and that was it, no problem.
After it took a full day to hook my bidet into my plumbing because I’m not a real man like Michael, the moment of truth had arrived. I negotiated with my lower muscles to ignore a lifetime’s worth of shame training and allow my hydro-devirginization to commence. My muscles were skeptical. They held a meeting.
The piercing jet found its target instantly and … holy crap! (Literally.)
My bidet has heat. However, I neglected to read the fine print about the “2-3 hours” it requires to fully warm the water after plugging it in for the first time. My reaction to this laser beam of glacial ice was a noise only Scandinavian fishermen would understand.
So I waited and regrouped. After two hours, I climbed right back onto my butthole-seeking horse and tried again. This time, my understanding of the universe was rewritten. I saw colors I’d never seen before. I briefly left my body. I think I may have even met my spirit animal. It was a polar bear. (I was still cold.)
Now, I’m the one grabbing friends with fire in my eyes, preaching the gospel of pressurized redemption. I’m the guy who corners people at parties, saying, “No, listen, you don’t understand …” while they back away toward the snack table.
And honestly, I’m fine with it. This is who I am now. I’m a bidet man. Or at least a Costco bidet attachment man. And I will not rest until every friend I have is cleansed, converted and thanking me later.
