The day started out innocently enough.

I had taken the day off from work with the sole purpose of getting my car detailed and running a few other errands much easier accomplished in the relative calm of mid-week. My car is neither stylish nor fancy and probably doesn’t even deserve to be detailed. Like giving Kelly Osbourne a facial. Why bother? But it’s old and I’d never had it professionally cleaned before, so today would be that day. Plus it was on my to do list already, in pen no less, making it an imperative.

I read the Scrub-a-Dub website and as instructed called in advance to schedule the detailing. “No, just come in whenever. We’ll do it,” I was told to my surprise. Sweet. The next morning I show up at Scrub-a-Dub and get in the car queue. As we’re inching forward I think, ok when I get to the front of the line I’ll tell them I don’t want a wash but the detailing and they’ll route me off to the side to get taken car of.

*rolling down window*
“Hi, I wanted to get my car detailed?”
“You gotta call ahead and schedule dat.”
“What? I called you guys yesterday and you said I could come in whenever.”
“You gotta schedule dat. Yooze wanna wash?”

Grrrrrr. Now ensues the fun of getting the six cars behind me to all back up far enough so that I can back up as well and not go through the washer. “This asshole suddenly decide he doesn’t want to get his car washed?” “This moron mistake the car wash for a Dairy Queen?”

I drive back home utterly defeated. A free day wasted. Goals not accomplished. Already noon. How to salvage? I decide to walk down to the neighborhood Irish pub for a relaxed lunch at the bar. I yank hard on the front door of the pub and almost dislocate my shoulder. They don’t open until 4pm.

I take a step back and blink repeatedly at the door. I want to drop to my knees and sob in disbelief like Charlton Heston at the end of Planet of the Apes. My eyes wander one storefront over. Holistic Clinic? Hmmm, how have I never noticed this place before? I walk in.

I’m greeted by a friendly receptionist. “Hi. Can I help you?” “I don’t know actually… I guess I just wanted to see what kinds of things you guys offer,” I say as I pick up a brochure from a carousel on her desk entitled The Ancient Path of Cleansing. I read the brochure silently for a few seconds and before I know it I ask, “Do you have any appointments available for one of these today?”

“Actually we do! We had someone cancel their 5pm appointment today so you could take their slot.”
(short pause) “Let’s do it.”
“OK great, so 5pm today with Kate. She’s great. She’ll take great care of you.”
“Should I do anything to prepare?”
“Not really, just don’t eat anything 2 hours prior to the appointment.”
“OK, I can do that. Bye.”
“Bye!”

Back out on the street there are two realities. I’m still hungry. I’m getting a colonic in less than 5 hours.

The afternoon is filled with lunch at the diner followed by a Dog the Bounty Hunter marathon on A&E. Leland’s ponytail is, as always, flawless. My friend wants to get a pug and name it Leland. I want to get a toy poodle and call it Mr. Poopers. I wonder how I’ll feel after the colonic. Should I manscape before I go? I start to think about how funny it would be if Kate turned out to be some sweet young thing. Ha! I’m noticing that Dog doesn’t really do much on this show but talk. I will talk Hawaianglish involuntarily for the next half hour. I look at the clock. Time to go.

“Hows it, bra?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry. I have a 5:00 with Kate?”
“Oh, it’s you! You’re back!”

She says it like she didn’t think I’d actually come back. I begin to feel multiple sets of eyes on me and I realize what discussions have probably transpired since my initial visit. It’s not my rugged good looks that have caused a stir. It’s that I am for sure the first and only person in their history to have ever done a colonic walk-in! It’s not like this is a barber shop or a nail salon. There is no “Walk-ins Welcome” sign in their front window. “Yeah, I swear Sandy, he just walked in, right off the street!”

I take a seat on the couch and fill out their new client questionnaire. What do I eat for breakfast, lunch, dinner? Do I take any supplements? How much sleep do I get a night? Do I experience any digestive discomforts? What do I hope to gain from the session? To this last one I write in big block letters: “To Sate My Curiosity.”

I see a girl walking towards me. (please no, please no, please no.)
She extends her hand, “Hi, I’m Kate. I’ll be your practitioner today. All done with the questionnaire? Let’s give it a look”
“Oh no, Kate.”
“What?”
“No, no no.”
What??”
“Kate, you’re supposed to be like 100 lbs heavier and from some eastern bloc country. Seriously.”
“(giggle) I get that a lot.”

Kate is young. Kate is cute. Kate is going to deflower me.

We move into the session room where there is a table, a toilet behind a curtain, and a large box attached to a wall at the end of the table. I’m told that that’s where all the water is. She assures me that she’s been doing this for over six years and that nothing is going to happen in this room today that she hasn’t already seen before. Nothing can happen that could embarrass her, and nothing that should embarrass me. I don’t remember what I contributed to the conversation but it ended with her saying that she could tell I was anxious and maybe the best thing would just be to get started before nerves increase. I nod a silent yes.

Kate leaves the room to give me time to undress, get on the table under the sheet, and I’m told I can also use a towel to cover myself, which I accept. The table is against one wall of the room onto which are taped an array of spiritual sayings and poems alongside pictures of suns rising and sanskrit and little icons of doves. At the end of the table I spot a map of the human foot with all of the reflexology points highlighted. I scan the wall for the Letter to the Corinthians.

Kate re-enters the room and begins her preparations. Against all sincere attempts at restraint I break down and ponder out loud about being concerned that I might actually enjoy the “insertion”. Kate is a consummate professional and explains matter of factly that there are a lot of nerve endings there and so it’s not surprising that there may be some nice sensations.

I’m told to lie on my side facing the wall in a fetal position. This puts my face directly in front of one of the many wall postings. “I accept myself and open myself to new experiences without judging,” I say in a mocking voice, reading straight off the wall. “That’s nice,” responds Kate. Ack! She thinks that came out of my head! I want to explain myself to her but there’s no direct eye contact in this position and before I can get a word out Kate parts my perfect perky globes and does the insertion. A quick and perfect bulls-eye. Wow. This isn’t so bad after all. I mean I wouldn’t want to keep this thing in all day, but it’s not as uncomfortable as I had feared. Within 15 minutes of meeting her Kate and I are now engaged in a human interaction I normally reserve for the 20th 15th 10th, ok, 2nd date. I do some quick math and come to the conclusion that the colonic is cheaper than two dinners, so if anything I’m actually ahead of the game here.

Kate places a comforting hand on my shin and let’s me know the water will begin now. I feel a slow tickle. The whole concept is that water is allowed to flow in, and then after a while the water is allowed to flow out. Rinse. Repeat. Supposedly the water goes as far up as your liver and can actually flush bile out as well as other material allegedly “stuck” in intestinal crevices after decades of non-stop digestion.

Kate informs me that it’s time to roll onto my back. What?! I express concern over fear of the tube coming lose or god knows what else. Kate, my rock, assures me this will never happen. “My hand is like a vice, promise, it’s not going anywhere.” She’s wonderful. I roll onto my back, my knees bent. For someone who spends uncountable hours looking at and touching his own body I’m surprised at suddenly feeling like I don’t know what kind of view Kate is having right now. How close are my boys to her hand gripping that tube? Is she staring at my junk? I nonchalantly cover up a little more with the towel which is just lumped in a big ball over crotch at this point.

That laying on my side stuff was just the intro. Kate informs me that we’ll be doing our first full flush now, of which we’ll do 4-5 of over the next 45 minutes. She tells me to let her know if things get too intense or if I get too uncomfortable. I appreciate her offer but I know there is no way in hell I’m going to back down from anything she might dish out. It was a big enough hurdle getting myself into this place and onto this table, no way in hell I’m not getting the full treatment.

Kate massages my lower belly with one hand, kneading it like dough. Things are getting less comfortable. Crampy. It’s an odd feeling. Every reflex of my body wants to tighten up, yet I’m supposed to relax as much as possible and just let things happen.

“Good release!” Kate will say excitedly several times during the session. My reaction every time is “Release?! I’m releasing?! What’s releasing?!” I feel completely gypped that I am denied any visual satisfaction during this entire process.

If this place has a suggestion box I’m going to suggest that the tube run from my bum, up the wall then around the entire perimeter of the room, before ending in the tank mounted on the wall. Kind of like those toy train tracks you see mounted at quirky diners or antique stores. If for some reason that G.I. Joe army figure I consumed in the 3rd grade should decide to reappear in my life I want to see him in all his glory shuttling through that tube so I can personally give him the salute he deserves.

At one point Kate can sense my discomfort. My eyes are closed, my hands are politely interlaced high on my chest as if I’m being shown at an open casket funeral. “You doing ok?” she asks. All I can manage back is a strained gravelly, “Hangin’ in there.” “Only one more to go after this one.” I don’t respond. I love you Kate.

I’m told to turn back onto my side; the session will end in the same position it began. As at ease as I was with the insertion, I’m duly panicked about the extraction. Kate extracts the apparatus and does something by the sink. I stay unmoved. Less than 30 seconds pass and for the first time in this entire experience I really feel like I’m in a dangerous place. I’ve never squeezed myself tighter in my life. Kate leaves and I spring up from the table and rush to the toilet. If she had dawdled for a single second longer I think we would have been in serious trouble.

I’m told that I’m the last session of the day so I can take my sweet time since no one is waiting for the room. I am so happy to hear this. I stay seated for about 15 minutes to gain a sense of safety that my walk home will not turn into a sprint. I think my parents would like Kate.

I emerge from the room fully dressed. Kate is waiting for me, still cheery.

“Did you use the bathroom?”
“Yes.”
“Was it solid or liquid?” she asks with complete sincerity.

With that one simple question Kate morphs instantly from cute to… my mother. In other words, she kills it. Oh sweet Kate, why did you have to ruin what we had?! “I can’t remember,” I tell her. It’s a lie. Kate suggests I should come back for 2-3 more sessions to get the full benefit of the colonic. I tell her I’ll think about it.

Back at my apartment I feel exhausted. I thought I’d feel spry like a cat whose just finished his business at the kitty litter and sprints around the room with comical overt pride, but I don’t. I muster enough energy to brush my teeth and wash my face before heading over to my desk for the final act of the night.

What I’m most proud of today is not that I voluntarily subjected myself to an experience well outside the bounds of my comfort zone. No. What I’m most proud of is how I didn’t let the Scrub-a-Dub incident derail me from reaching my goal. Like a Marine I improvised, I adapted, I overcame.

With a grin on my face I take pen in hand and check off the last item on the day’s to do list.

The day started out innocently enough.

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