Better thoughts, one flush at a time

November eh? ladies and gentlemen. The month that colorfully slinks in like a guy who owes you money and hopes you won’t notice.

And what does November bring us again this year? Two would-have been beautiful holidays, back-to-back like a bad trio peanut butter jelly sandwich .. Men’s Mental Health Month and, right on the 19th, World Toilet Day.

That’s right. The calendar looked at men and said, “You know what these over grown fellows really need? Thirty days to think about their feelings … and one special day to celebrate the porcelain throne.” The Powers at play, got a sense of humor darker than your body waking you up for the sudden urge to use the rest room at 3 a.m. Always inconvenient. Always a headache.

I mean, Let’s get honest here.

Where does the average male do 90% of his heavy emotional lifting? It’s not on a therapist’s couch .. It’s not in some drum-circle or hug-it-out .. mountain resort .. “How does that make you feel, Chad?” support group. Nope. He does it on that ceramic pedestal. That’s right. The john. The porcelain think tank. The only place left in world ... where a man can lock the door, drop trou, and stare at the wall like he’s solving string theory while playing angry birds.

The last fortress of male solitude! Ten square feet of peace where the only person bugging you is your kid or wife outside going, “HEYYY, ARE YOU DONE YETTT?” Yeah, kid, I’m contemplating the collapse of our civilization, just gimme five more minutes and my courtesy flush.

Guys. This is where the real conversations happen. Between you and yourself. Bills? Yeah, they’re in there. That weird pain in your knee that started at 38? In there. Your wife’s random “Can we goto Finland, Spain, Japan and circle back to Doha . .this vacation?” plans, Yep. The fact you sometimes wake up for work feeling like a walking IV bag with a tie? In there. The meaning of life? Forty-two, my friend, and it’s somehow written in white .. on that white tile grout right in front of you. Yeah.

Go ahead man, Use that shataf now .. imprint that 42 skillfully on that tile in front of you. (iykyk, Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy).

But the second that handle goes whoooosh, all that profound nonsense disappears faster than the evidence at a crime scene. Poof. Gone. But farts like thoughts .. remain .. esp those smelly ones .. because men have been trained since birth ... real men don’t bring bathroom thoughts into the living room. You flush the evidence, you wash your hands, you wave that stink away, you walk out like nothing happened. “Babes, I’m fine.” Yeah, fine like a pimple the size of Banana Island.

So .. now they’ve got Men’s Mental Health Month. Beautiful.

Thirty days to admit we’re all one bad Monday from putting our heads in the oven we never really learned how to use .. at least to full potential. But fellas .. mmmm ... you can’t fix your head the same way you fix a clogged toilet. You don’t just plunge the dark thoughts and hope they flush down the bowl and disappear. Nope. Those little annoying crap come back. Usually at 3 a.m. when you’re trying to figure out why you’re crying over that annoying non-skipping life-insurance commercial.

I’m saying .. You need people. Yeah, I said it. People. Other human beings who aren’t trying to sell you a timeshare or get you to join their bit coin crypto pyramid scheme. You need a buddy, a pal, a decent Jeeves just as screwed up as you are who’ll listen to you say, “I think I’m losing it,” without handing you a 20kg dumbell and telling you to “man up” ..

You need a place where you can say, “I’m forty years old and I’m scared of dying,” and nobody laughs or calls you a wuss or tries to fix you with some toxic-positive thought like “Just elevate higher, bro.” You just need somebody to go, “Yeah, me too. Lets go for a Karak?”

That’s the real plunger, folks. Talking. Out loud. With words. Not grunts. Not memes. Not scrolling through other people’s vacations while you sit on the can at 2 a.m. wondering why you feel hollow. Actual conversations. It’s cheaper than therapy and works better than half the random pills they’re hawking on instagram between ads for reverse mortgages and Magnesium pills. That simple act of speaking, of being heard, is the emotional equivalent of fixing the leaky faucet of life. With small efforts and enormous relief .. no?

So this month, Guys .. do me a favor.

Celebrate World Toilet Day the way it was meant to be celebrated. We get off the damn throne, pull up those manly trousers, unlock the door, and go find your tribe. A fictional Jeeves of sorts, wise and unflappable, or your fellow mugheads. Your platoon of dysfunctional grown men who also don’t have it figured out. Grab a coffee, a chai, a shawarma, a nice crusted extra large sourdough pizza with your favorite toppings, whatever. Sit down and stare into nothing together, say the crazy shit out loud before it ferments into something that needs a prescription.

I know the toilet’s great for thinking, but it sucks for healing or any sort of connection. Life cannot be lived entirely in the loo. And even the most impacted soul, like that most stubborn stain of thought, eventually moves when somebody else is willing to reach for the plunger and help you flush out the disappointments.

Stay regular, you beautiful Working Men. And talk to somebody.