Cold Plunge Pussy
Who can lift the heaviest, who can eat the spiciest, who can bang the hottest. The clash of the superlatives is how toxic men prove their toxic masculinity. Wild apes beating their chests, look at me, me STROOONG!
As a passionate opponent of the patriarchy, I take pleasure in subverting harmful gender role stereotypes like that by exposing them as what they are: a hilariously oversimplified social construct invented to enforce patriarchal culture. In contrast to what society wants you to believe – shocker – you don’t have to be a man to be extremely good at extremes. And if you happen to be a man who isn’t good at extremes that doesn’t make you any less of a man. Who knew!
That’s why I love the cold plunge at the spa. I’ve always had a thing for extreme temperatures, scorching hot showers, icy skinny dipping, it’s nothing to me. I enjoy it in fact. My body is not a temple. It’s a well-oiled steel machine that I use to crush toxic men’s tiny little egos. Men of all shapes and sizes from bony, meaty to walking-steroid ads for Fitness First become shadows of themselves in my presence. I am the ice queen, the boss of the video game of their lives they cannot beat. They just can’t handle it. And I love it.
The first rule of the plunge is to submerge your entire body at once super-fast like you’re ripping off a band aid. It’s called the cold plunge and not the cold big-toe-first-then-foot-calve-maybe-thigh-ah-not-my-junk plunge for a reason. Once I’m in, I settle into a corner. In this 4-feet deep pool, I am the man. I take up space like I own this place. The padded triangles of fabric covering my breasts become chest armor. My arms rest on the corners of the pool like I’m Joe Pesci in a Martin Scorsese movie. Be afraid, be very afraid. That’s stage one.
At some point around the 1-minute mark, the first look-me-strong man children make eye contact. This time it’s two frat bros in very manly Viking hats (no, I did not make this up). At that point, they’re still thinking, that bitch ain’t got nothin’ on me directly followed by just 10 more seconds till I beat her. But I don’t leave. I don’t even flinch. There’s not one sign of human emotion on my poker face.
Stage two. They realize, fuck, she good. They mutter some version of, “Sup”, “how long you been in here?” – secretly hoping, wishing, praying for me to say, oh just a min sweetie and surrender. But I don’t. I hang out. It’s not even a challenge for me. The more they pretend to be cool instead of freezing cold, the more blasé I get. Horn helmet 1 starts shaking, breathing heavily like he’s in labor. I flash my most victorious smile and his masculinity shatters like a porcelain swan figurine. Viking down.
Stage three. I demonstrate dominance by paddling my legs under water like a kid on the first day of summer as if to say, this is sooooo easy lalalalala. It infuriates them that I, a person of what patriarchal society deems the “weaker” sex, am not just stronger, better at this extreme manly activity than them, the manly men, but it’s not even remotely challenging for me. It’s what I do for fun. That’s what breaks them. And another one bites the dust.
The finale. When the clock hits 5 minutes, every man crumbles like a graham cracker. But there’s already fresh meat on the horizon: A big, hairy bear of a guy with tats all over waltzes toward me. To my surprise, he is not one of the chest beaters who view my utter existence as a threat to their masculinity aka identity. He’s a whole new kind of species not afraid to be weak or God forbid, weaker than me, a woman. The bear submerges his big toe into the 50°F and shrieks, “Oh my god it’s effing cold!!!”. I will admit, I catch myself thinking, amateur. But instead of pulling a power move, I give him a warm, empathetic smile that says, you’re a cold plunge pussy. And that’s okay.