Me, myself and I - in a bathtub, like a Roman

So I am sitting in a huge bathtub with a small waterfall rolling off my back.

Jets of water are swirling about me, but I can’t quite decide if I want them set to simulate a tide pool or river rapids. There are “chromotherapy” lights in the tub and in the dim room, occasionally changing color while new age music gently gurgles in the background

The day before this I was among Latin students looking forward to attending a G-rated Roman banquet in togas. If they could see me now, I think.

Strike that. If they could see me now, I might be arrested. Still, I feel like an emperor or at least some sore of naked senator.

At the same time I feel a bit like a pot roast, or boiled beef maybe, as I was exfoliated with sea salts before being set in the bath.

Into the Mike stew my kindly young aestheticist Melanie added John Michael Kohler Bath Salts, Phytomarin Anti-Stress Bath and Phytomarin Dried Seawater Bath.

I am yummy I bet - to a hungry, dumb bear who forgot to hibernate or maybe a ravenous deer attracted by all that salt.

This is all part of my John Michael Kohler for Him Bathing Experience at the American Club resort’s Carriage House, which ends with me getting sprayed with John Michael Kohler oil, a sort of seal coat on a snowy winter’s day in Kohler.

On my way back to the locker room, I ask to see a Vichy shower in another treatment room, which looks like one of the power car washes set up over an examining table.

Now judging by this, if you didn’t know any better, you might think John Michael Kohler was a hair stylist who made it big, took a liking to cheese and moved to near Sheboygan, Wisconsin.

But if you’ve gone to the a nice bathroom, you’ve probably seen Kohler’s name at an intimate moment or two in your life. John Michael, of course, founded a company made famous by its bathtubs, plumbing fixtures and bubblers.

There appears to be little evidence that Kohler ever willingly exfoliated then soaked in seaweed, and you can fact check that at the Kohler Design Center and Museum next door to the Carriage House.

It all makes me think I’d like to have my own town someday, with nice little houses that make me hungry for ginger bread, and deluxe golf courses galore, and a hunting club with tasty gourmet roast beef sandwiches served on cibatta bread.

And if this doesn’t sound like Wisconsin, then you haven’t been to Kohler or Sheboygan. I mean even the hunters I saw coming into River Wildlife were wearing clothes right out of the original Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue, replete with required pure bred black lab. These are models, not Pabst drinkers, I think.

But nothing ever really is at it appears, which is a good thing, because if it were, that would mean the knuckle heads on talk radio are actually right about the world.
And speaking of how things appear, or don’t in this case, back at the spa, there are separate saunas and whirlpools in the locker room of each sex. But on this day, the guys are wearing swimsuits (at least until one proud of his skinny ass dude showed up and made everyone uncomfortable).

This is not Rome after all, so if most have a suit on so do I. (Even Melanie closed her eyes while I covered up with a towel, which was probably best for everyone.) What I learn, too, is I am not the only guy here new to this man spa stuff.

Guys come up with their wives (but not in the Mormon sense of that) more than likely get some after spa loving, and, most importantly, get away from the kids for the weekend.

There seem to be gaggles of women here, too, getting away from their men - though I do picture deer hunters coming here in the fall for a warm body butter application.

It’s all about the me time. As a single guy who sometimes is socially autistic I have way too much of this. I know for a a fact that at least one good buddy is jealous of this, the grass always seeming greener or this time of year, the snow whiter.

But I go with the flow (pun unintentional) and wind up spending most of the rest of the weekend with me, myself and I.

Hey, I had to drive back home to beat a blizzard. Keeping with the water theme, in the northwest Chicago burbs just about every type of moisture that can come from the sky did on Saturday night.

I was supposed to go to a wine tasting party, but apparently was the only guest who decided that driving in slush after drinking was not a good idea.

On a solo roll (and not big on traveling in crappy weather, 215-pound wuss that I am)I spent much of Sunday alone too, a couple hours of it shoveling slush from the driveways, 20 pound scoops at a time.

And if you’ve read this blog before, you know I shovel a lot of slush.