This story involves my butt. You will receive no further warnings.

A friend of mine’s father is at a retreat near my area to get his health back on track. My friend asked if I would visit him and help support him on the road back to wellness. Of course I said yes, and I was really happy to do it, since we haven’t talked in a couple of years now.

I had never been to that part of the state and have never been to a fancy-pants spa-retreat-thing. They have nutritional consultants, supervised juice fasting, and a health spa, plus every Tuesday state-licensed hippies will come to your room and either meditate over the injustice of high fructose corn syrup, or else gaze deeply into your eyes for up to five minutes and then tell you that you are “deep.” It’s my understanding that, for an extra charge and with a minimum of 24 hours notice, they will do both.

Wanting to capitalize of every day of the YoF, I got the great idea to make an acupuncture appointment because acupuncture freaks me out so much I forgot to add it to the list until just now. So I found the spa menu online and started perusing.

Perusal denied. No acupuncture. I don’t know if this was a deliberate omission or an unintentional violation of the Arizona Revised Flower Child and Beatnik Statutes. But I didn’t want to give up on what is obviously a genius idea, so I perused the menu again with deadly intent, looking for the scariest thing I could find to try. I turned up a couple of options:

Option 1: Bio-Mat – Relax on an amethyst-filled mat that emits far infra-red waves and negative ions for deep cellular detoxification and healing. 30 min appointment $50

This is simply too goofy to be afraid of.

Option 2: Oxybounce – Bounce on a mini trampoline as you breathe in pure medical-grade oxygen to stimulate lymphatic circulation, increase mental clarity and boost cardiovascular health. 15 min appointment $7

This… well, again.

Option 3: Colon Hydrotherapy – Remove toxins from the colon, prevent constipation and other digestive issues, and improve overall health. Our colon hydrotherapists use a closed-system to ensure a clean, comfortable, and effective experience. 60 min appointment – $85

I stopped on this one, reading it closely. My initial excitement at the use of the serial comma was immediately dampened by the lack of noun after the hyphenated adjectival phrase.

Realizing to my dismay that grammar would be unable to protect me from this situation, I read it again slowly. As I did, my heart started beating faster and my mouth went dry, both because of nervousness about what this would entail, as well as because I knew I couldn’t in good conscience make a joke where the punchline is that the scariest thing about this is the price.

Still, it seemed like the most frightening thing available, and I didn’t want to leave there without checking something off the list. And yet: yuck-o. This conflict started a serious internal debate, though said debate only lasted about four seconds and ended when I accidentally outsmarted myself:

Me: Well, I could certainly never do that.

Me Prime: Why not?

Me: I’d be afraid of oh goddammit.

Me Prime: Mwa ha ha.

So I called to make an appointment. Or at least I tried. I called three times, and every time got a voicemail message indicating there was a high volume of calls and I should either try again later or email my request.

Let me tell you, something that seems like a high-larious gag for a ridiculous project becomes a lot more sombering when you have to type out exactly what you’re requesting and for what time and date. I don’t think I’ve ever been so goddamn serious about anything in my life as when I saw my request for a colonic in writing, written by me, with my name attached.

And about four hours later the reply came back that I had been scheduled for 10:30, which would give me just enough time to “prepare” for lunch.

The anxiety about this set in the day before. Should I be eating anything in particular? Is it rude to have chili for dinner? Is more fiber better or worse?

And will I be expected to interact with this person during? Will it be like when I go to the dentist and the hygienist asks if I’ve been flossing and I say yes, and she smiles and says she can tell, and then I feel guilty because I just lied? And I’m pretty sure she knows I’m lying?

Or worse, is she going to be bold enough to offer unlicensed medical advice (or, god forbid, compliments) based on the excavation? I started to pray that, whoever this person is and no matter what she internal discoveries she might make, she does not praise me in any way whatsoever.

And she is going to be a she, right?

Are you supposed to tip your enemologist? Does anyone know? Where am I supposed to obtain this information?

But I got up bright and early for my 10:30 appointment. I knew the place was about an hour away, so my plan was to get on the road by about 9 and have a nice, relaxing scenic drive through the unending miles of godforsaken wilderness that lay between me and my destination.

So you can see why I would be slightly fucking irritated when I pulled up Google maps around 9ish to get directions and there it read:

1 hour 39 minutes

So I’m already late. My only option is to make up the time on the road. I had planned to fill up my car before I left, since I only had a third of tank, but I drive a trusty Prius, so I figured I’d be ok as long as I got gas before I made the return trip.

I enjoyed the breathtaking scenery along the way at speeds upwards of 85 miles per hour. I managed to arrive in town with a few minutes to spare, but then I faced the problem of actually getting where I was going. The spa is in a town of 913 people. It has two roads and no stoplights. I got lost. Twice. And then when I got there, I couldn’t figure out where to check in, so I just wandered around the property until one of the people staying at the spa noticed me and, taking pity on me, kindly offered me directions.

It’s that damn Directional Deficit Disorder. It destroys lives.

So I was late, but my technician, a very nice woman named Sherie, didn’t seem to mind. She led me back to the chamber of death, which was a freestanding portable kind of thing about 8′ × 8′. It was kept at easily 90°, I’m assuming because you’re in there butt naked (oh you better believe pun intended). The room was mostly taken up with a raised bed, on which was prepared an incontinence mat and a nozzle big enough to double as a freaky nouveau bracelet. There was a teeny bathroom off to the left with only a fragile sliding door between me and Sherie, who was now smiling relentlessly, as no doubt I would if I had to spend my Sunday morning sticking things up strangers’ butts.

But what really riveted my attention was what in my memory has become THE MACHINE: an enormous white metal 50’s-looking device called the Hydro-San Plus Colon Therapy System (in the fancy “We❤ Science" fonts and everything) that sure enough had a closed-system that pumped a solution in ("fill," as Sherie told me it was called) and then, without ever exposing any, um, material to air, pumped it all back out again ("release").

THE MACHINE

She asked if I had ever done this before, and I said no, admitted I was pretty darn freaked out by the prospect, and explained why I was doing it what with the whole YoF project.

"Oh, wow, that’s so great that you’re doing that,” she said in her lightly accented English. “Are you going to go skydiving?”

“Yes,” I replied, with just the proper dash of smugness.

“That’s great, I’ve never been. But don’t worry. That’s much worse than this.”

I had to get all naked and wear a hospital gown. She was sitting on her technician’s stool (omg I’m hilarious). I stood by the bed, keeping it as a barrier between her and me, and just stared at her. I couldn’t do it.

“A little nervous? Don’t worry. It’s very gentle pressure. And everything is lubed, including my hands.”

Your what now?

“You’ll feel pressure, but if it hurts, tell me and I’ll stop. But it might hurt as it goes around a corner inside, so try and take as much as you can. Also, tell me if you experience any chills or nausea. A lot of first-timers do.”

Just as I was beginning to wonder if I was on Candid Sadist Camera, she tried reassuring me by showing me how the machine works. “As you see here, I can control the temperature and the pressure. And you’ll be able to watch your releases go through this tube here.”

I realized I couldn’t actually understand what she was saying anymore. I had to stop and try putting the words together in my head again.

“You can…watch…”

OH MY GOD THAT TUBE IS TO WATCH YOUR...IT'S TO WATCH

Sherie seemed pleased I finally got it. “Yes, we’ll be able to see what’s being released and find out what health improvements we can make.”

“You watch it?”

She frowned slightly, perhaps realizing that my IQ had just dropped a good 50 points. “Um…yes. A lot of people really enjoy seeing what they’re releasing. Usually we discuss health issues as it goes by.”

This was when I began to realize I’d made a horrible, horrible mistake.

I had forgotten all words greater than one syllable, but I tried my best to communicate. “I don’t think I want to watch.”

She seemed puzzled but bemused, as though I’d told her I don’t believe in electricity. “Well, you don’t have to. But I’ll watch and tell you what I see.” She hesitated. I must have been pale. I felt like lying down, but there was only one bed in the room and I wasn’t about to get on that. She started talking again using the bright tone you use to reassure mental patients or feral cats:

“It’s really not so bad. It’s just like muddy water. I think it’s really interesting. I could watch it all day! Except for the smell, I think poop is fascinating!”

Actually, this was when I began to realize I’d made a horrible, horrible mistake. I couldn’t remember how to blink or swallow. All I could think of to say was, “I guess you’re the right one for the job, then.”

“Um…yes. Well, come on, hop up. Nothing to worry about. This is something we all should get done two or three times a year, like cleaning your teeth or changing your oil.” I felt stupider standing there using the table as a Sherie barricade than just letting her do what she was supposed to do, so I climbed up, lied down, and faced away from her, which was correct, but doesn’t that just seem rude? I think it was rude.

She told me she was going to “check” with her fingers, then to expect “an insertion.” I couldn’t imagine how I was supposed to expect that, even under the circumstances.

She checked. I have to say that Sherie, although a lovely person and a fine technician, has freakishly large man-fingers. I think she should see a doctor about it.

And I was correct: you can’t expect that. You just can’t.

As she was making some adjustments and getting ready to start, she said, quite conversationally and without any warning: “You’re one of those people whose colon is quite close to the vagina.” She paused and waited, obviously expecting an answer. I didn’t have one, so I tried: “Oh.”

I must have sounded disappointed, because she rushed to assure me that it was perfectly fine and just my own special unique body and is neither right nor wrong. The logistics of counter-assuring her that I wasn’t actually at all concerned about the placement of my extremely personal body parts and that frankly all I wanted from life at this moment was to have never made this decision in the first place seemed overwhelming and fraught with emotional peril, so I just said: “Ok.”

“You’re going to feel a lot of pressure as it fills,” chirped Sherie. “Take as much as you can.”

It may be of interest to the reader at this point to know that, as of this writing, I’m engaged in a lawsuit in 17 states to forbid anyone from using the word “pressure” as a euphemism for “OH GOD KILL ME GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT.”

She massaged my belly with some oil to get the solution in and then to get it out again (with the same gloves on she used to “check,” now that I think about it). She appeared to be under the impression this was helpful. I actually would have felt less pressure if she’d been punching me in the personal area.

“Does that feel ok?” she asked.

“I’M ACTUALLY FEELING SOME SLIGHT PRESSURE NOW.”

And of course she wanted to talk the whole time. Some questions I should have been prepared for but most decidedly was not:

Are you normally pretty regular?

Did you have a bowel movement this morning?

Was it a good one?

(A: “Yes,” “yes,” and “I suppose it depends on your definition.”)

She tried asking about the project, where I was I from, what my educational background was, and how I enjoyed living in a small town growing up. All my replies were in the same low, loud, strained monosyllables used by dying supervillains or perverts on the bus. When there came an uncomfortable lull in the conversation, she tried switching to discussing the matter at hand.

“You have very healthy bowels. No mucus!”

“GREAT!”

We did a few rounds of fill and release. I tried to give constructive feedback (“I didn’t expect it to be this painful. Is that normal?”), but the situation was deteriorating fast and she could tell I was struggling to, shall we say, maintain a certain amount of dignity w/r/t the incontinence pad.

“If you really need to get up and use the toilet, you can,” she said, looking suddenly quite serious. “But try not to do that. It just smells up the room for the both of us.”

I’ve been accused of being anal-retentive before, but this was the only time I was thankful for it. But the pain was impressive and getting worse. Sherie’s professional opinion was that something had shifted inside and the fill pressure needed to be higher to dislodge it. She cranked the pressure gauge up to “FIRE HOSE” and asked me if it felt ok. I unfortunately don’t recall exactly what I said, but she didn’t do that again.

So it wasn’t going well. After 30 minutes of not going well, she seemed slightly desperate to find something to make me feel better. “You know, one of the fun parts of a a colonic is that afterward you have a nice flat tummy!”

I gurgled in response. I tried to make it sound enthusiastic, but she still seemed concerned.

Her final effort at helping me relax into the detoxification experience was a stretch, as it were, but I do respect her for trying.

“You’re doing really well,” she soothed. “Some people have a hard time with the tube and release onto the mat. You’re releasing everything into the tube and nothing at all onto the—…uh, oops.”

I stared fixedly at the ceiling. “That’s exactly what just happened, isn’t it?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

We stopped. It was only halfway through, but we both knew I was done. As she started cleaning up, she said something I will never understand:

“So, are you going to come back? Twice a year?”

I stared at her. “Like getting my teeth cleaned?”

A long moment passed between us.

She tried again: “Once a year?”

Centuries of silence passed.

“You can tell all your friends to come down here.”

I was as polite as was possible under the circumstances when I said, “I will be sure to tell them all about it.”

I got dressed in the the bathroom and then just hid there until she couldn’t find anything else to clean in the little room and finally left. On the table was the paper I was supposed to sign to acknowledge the treatment. Under the amount was written:

Offering of gratitude (heart): _________

So I guess you are supposed to tip your enemologist. Now I know. I figured she and I were both just equally grateful it ended halfway through and left it blank.

But karma got me back: I was so distracted by running into my friend on the way out of the building that I forgot to go to the office to pay and didn’t make it back until after they closed. So I accidentally did a dine and dash or whatever the fuck you’d call it in this case. Now I have to call them on the phone and explain who I am, what I had done to me, and probably have a whole new conversation about a chapter in my life I would do pretty much anything to have forever closed.

Plus then I forgot to fill up my tank before I headed back, and it was already night and the Prius was flashing empty, so for 90 minutes I drove reallyreally fast, hoping to get somewhere even halfway close to either a gas station or cell service or (preferably) both before I sputtered to a stop, the whole time desperately calculating my average per-tank mileage and how it compared to my current mpg. Unfortunately for me I never paid attention in any math class ever, so my calculations were mainly just me praying to my car, saying “come on baby come on baby come on baby come on baby come on baby.” The Prius must have heard me, because we made it to a gas station just before dying, so now I think I have to change my religion to Prius. Could be worse; I could have been driving a Kia.

Verdict: fear conquered, but at the price of my dignity. Fortunately I didn’t have much of that to begin with anyway. Good night, and may Prius be upon you.

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