Hagar

If you’re squeamish about bathroom things, look away.

But if you love best friend stories, stay.

A year ago I began having some serious health issues. I won’t bore you with how much I whined but, after hearing I probably needed spinal surgery, I was ecstatic to discover my pain actually stemmed from carpal tunnel syndrome.

Fixable!

“Very severe” was the diagnosis. Bad enough that during the nerve test, the doctor thought his machine wasn’t functioning. There was zero signal getting from my brain to my hands.

By January I couldn’t peel a banana, take the cap off the ChapStick or lift a coffee mug. I continued to write but 30 minutes of typing became a three-hour chore.

Weeks later I sat in a surgeon’s office. I’m the most surgery-averse person you’ll meet, but even I knew there was no choice.

“We’ll do both hands on the same day,” the cheerful doctor assured me. “The bandages come off in three days, stitches come out in 10. You’ll be so happy you did it this way!”

Uh.

How would I, you know, take care of personal hygiene during that time? Could I limit what came out of my body by consuming only water for that long?

Sounds silly but I am painfully private, other than all the tea I spill in my columns. I struggle to use public restrooms or reveal my health issues to my family.

I began researching how to take care of my southern region without hands. Everything pointed to using a bidet.

That 1700s French invention was used the world over except here, until the year 2020 said “Hold my beer.”

I did not jump on the bidet wagon when people crazed out buying toilet paper in the early months of the pandemic. But that movement (sorry) opened a faucet of innovation in home bidet design, it turns out. Camo Man and I spent hours looking at reviews and watching YouTubes of various spray mechanisms we could attach to our toilet.

The video reviews on Amazon were just the best. People, looking rightfully proud of themselves, propped their phones to record themselves demonstrating how to use the auxiliary plumbing.

Time and time again, the new bidet owners misjudged its power and turned the control knob one click too many. Like a furious porpoise, the spray nozzle jumped to a 90-degree turn. With no object in the way, the waterspout baptized its owner, their phone and everything else.

Dazed by constant pain and lack of sleep, these potty mishaps sent me into a helpless storm of laughter. Such idiots!

We made our decision, ordered the SuperBioBidet 5,000 and then it was time for me to temporarily lose the use of my hands.

Everything worked out as expected, including the bidet, not that you were asking. One by one, signs of carpal tunnel disappeared. I resumed a more robust work schedule, lids were back on containers, the grippy gardening gloves were stashed, I no longer needed someone to cut up my food.

The bidet has stayed, however, but I’m not allowed to say at whose insistence.

In late summer my friend Ann returned from her snowbird state for a visit. We’ve been friends since we began Mrs. Croker’s kindergarten class together. If anyone knows my private stuff, it’s Ann.

Together, no matter that time has marched on for six decades, we are little girls again.

Ann had already heard about the bidet but couldn’t wrap her mind around how it works. She couldn’t shake the notion that the attachment uses toilet bowl water, which ranks as the grossest idea ever.

I marched her into my bathroom.

“Look. See that incoming water line right there? It’s using the same clean water that is filling up the toilet tank,” I nearly shouted, exasperated at Ann’s lack of critical thinking.

“Who in the world would certify these things if they were using toilet water? Here, let me show you.”

You know what happened.

As the water emerged from the rimside spigot, I turned it one degree further, to show my friend how this thing cleans as advertised. I knew to not go too far, so I stayed ready to instantly dial back the stream.

As if in slow motion I watched bidet water — CLEAN water, do I have to say it again? — arc up, up, up, unimpeded by anyone’s bottom. Like McNary Dam bursting, the flood rushed to claim every available surface.

The bathroom never had a chance. Water dripped off the mirrors and coated the natural maple cabinets. The floor was a lake in seconds. My jeans were sopping wet.

One look at each other was all it took to break into hysterical laughter. We speed-mopped with all the towels, transported back to grade school days when we tried insane projects that had to be cleaned up before we were caught.

The bidet sat as a silent witness to the madness of two aging women furiously wiping at water. We haven’t laughed together this way in far too long.

This was the silver lining in getting carpal tunnel — very severe fun. I’m off to film an Amazon product review.