Cowboys Don’t Drink Bathwater

Brought to you by the Wild West.

When I was a young ‘un growing up not too far from Deadwood, I wanted to be a cowboy in the worst way. I had (and still have) friends and relatives who were genuine range riding, cattle herding, bronc busting (and it’s bronc, not bronc-o, tenderfoot), rodeo winning cowboys and cowgirls, and I was sorely vexed at being a townie. The reason?

Horses.

I wanted a horse more than anything else in the world. I rode several stick horses into the ground, exhausted whole herds of imaginary mounts, and mentally referred to my 10-speed as my steed. I explained to my parents how we could fence in the back yard and use the garage as a barn, and I fantasized for years about coming home on my birthday to find my wish granted. I even assured Mother and Father Media that I would rather ride a horse than drive a car when I turned 14 so they wouldn’t have to worry about me behind the wheel. (Alas, I ended up with the car.)

Even though I remained unmounted, I admired the cowboys who’d tamed the prairie and strove to live up to their example. I was, as my friend Kelly was fond of saying, “rough and tough and hard to bluff; I picked my nose and ate the stuff.” I wore hats, vests, chaps and — until they grew too expensive — boots in my gallops around park and playground. I lived by the code of the west.

This code included bathing whether I needed it or not. Actually, I didn’t mind bathing, because I was an avid swimmer in my spare time. Tub time was fun time as far as I was concerned. It was perhaps less so for Mother Media, who had to supervise and prevent me from flooding the bathroom. She used the time to teach me rhymes and songs, and to correct some of the uncivilized habits I’d developed rustling cattle in the back yard. Like drinking the bathwater, for instance.

For a long time, I didn’t understand why drinking my bathwater was a bad idea. In my eyes, water was by definition clean, so surely it was fine for drinking. Mother Media had different ideas about that, however, and we disagreed for some time — until, like Wild Bill at the poker table, she pulled an ace out of her sleeve one day.

“Cowboys don’t drink bathwater,” she informed me. And from that moment forward, neither did I.

Not drinking bathwater is one of the few cowboy traits I retain in adulthood. I live comfortably in a metropolitan suburb, not rough on the range. I never learned to soothe restless dogies by playing the harmonica (although I can torment cats with an oboe). I avoid country music and the company of men who spit. The only rodeo I’ve ever been in was made by Isuzu, and my high-heeled boots came from Eddie Bauer. I almost never say “yee-ha.”

And I still don’t have a horse.

Today around the world: November 25 is Sinkie Day in the U.S., celebrating the joys of eating while leaning over the sink. It’s also the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women, which is a little more important.