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The Tushy

My husband bought another Tushy.

This is a device that somehow converts your toilet into a bidet. The device reroutes water from your sink--I think?--and shoots it up your butt.

I say "another" Tushy, because the first Tushy we owned is now defunct. We had to abandon it when we moved from one house to another.

Some people say the reason adults today are so messed-up is that certain beautiful bodily processes were once finessed as sources of shame. We're all weird about sex because our teachers tiptoed around that subject. We're weird about poop because, years ago, no one really talked about poop. So, in 2020, there are aggressive countermeasures: Now, kids get sex ed at very, very early ages, and you can find picture books with titles like "Who Pooped in the Park?"

I'm all for candor, but I'm a hypocrite. I talk the talk, but I had a moment of deep embarrassment when I had to deal with the Tushy packaging. Recycling, in my town, is very "public": You leave your boxes outside your door, and everyone knows that those particular boxes belong to you. Tushy Co. proudly prints the word "Tushy" in big, aggressive lettering all over its box. So, as I tried to conceal the lettering, I imagined myself stopping strangers and saying: "Trust me, this is not a sex toy!" Or: "A bidet is actually a really civilized invention!" It's hard to count the bits of lunacy in these strange scenarios I dreamed up.

Finally, I just left the Tushy box next to my over-stuffed bin, and I ran quickly back into my house, before approaching strangers could talk to me.

My husband insists that I must at least try the Tushy *once* before I die. And when the subject pops up, I murmur something evasive. Marriage is about compromise, and a Tushy moment likely wouldn't fill me with disgust. But, still, I'm set in my ways.

For now--at least--I'm making an effort to get to know our Tushy. I've studied the logo next to the toilet bowl--which seems to be a water drop, in profile, with one wide eye and a large grin. (The water drop is happy to contemplate meeting your butt!) I've also discovered a labeled setting on the device--"Bum Wash"--which makes me wonder if there are *other* settings to choose from. (Why do you need to specify that you want a "bum wash" from your Tushy?)

These are the steps I'm taking. Rome wasn't built in a day.

My husband, by contrast, loves his Tushy. He calls it "MY Tushy," not "THE Tushy," and he reports back to me, beaming, each and every time he has used it. And I imagine handing him a little gold star.

My husband is elated, clearly. And me? I'm adjusting to a new friend--and, for a shy, fairly-rigid person, this process just takes time.
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