Dad was comfortable in his own skin.
He took a whore’s bath with the door half-open. His boxers, in which he paraded around the house, were so threadbare they were almost see-through. An undiagnosed hypochondriac, he also wasn’t shy about showing my sister and me what ailed him, even if it was near the equator.
I’m a tad more modest.
Back when I wore a few extra pounds, shedding my top for “shirts and skins” basketball didn’t thrill me. But I did it.
That’s man code.
Same goes for the shower at the gym. No privacy. No problem.
I draw the line, though, at public dumping.
What happens in that stall is between me and my lower intestinal tract. I don’t need an audience, nor do I grant one if I can help it.
My rule of thumb: Clear the restroom, then the colon.
All of which is easier said than done. Care to guess how many people make a deposit during an eight-hour day? About everyone in the building.
So gents, next time you see me bypass the urinal, do me a favor.
Evacuate. So I can do the same.