Okay, call me what you will – a wanton pleasure seeker, pampered effete – I am guilty as charged. Because I admit it: I had a foot mask. (I’m not actually sure it was called a “foot mask.” Is there a real term for having your foot dipped in paraffin?)

My dear wife gave me a gift certificate to a local spa, so there I was. A dim room, candles, soft New Age music. A young woman was rubbing my feet with cocoa butter – tingly, tingly – and explaining the routine. I would dip my feet in warm paraffin, she would wrap them in plastic, then tuck them away in little feet mittens. She had the same thing planned for my hands.

“This is really good for your hands and your feet,” she explained. “We abuse them so.” I felt a moment of sympathy for all those people out there with abused hands and feet, without the benefit of paraffin.

So she dipped me, three times per foot. The paraffin was thick and swirly, and hot. It instantly formed a waxy mask on my feet. Then she did my hands. Along the way I also got a facial and a massage. I was feeling no pain.

I was, I realized, in severe danger of being drummed out of the society of Red-Blooded American Males. Does a real man have a foot mask? Does a real man allow himself to be sprayed with organic plum mist, as I did? (although with my hands and feet wrapped in plastic, I can claim to be defenseless).

To regain my hard shell of masculinity, I plan a full-length viewing of Spartacus while gnawing on an old piece of beef jerky. If that doesn’t work, I’ll put up a poster of Dick Cheney and bang my head against the wall a few times.

But I don’t regret my spa experience. One major advantage: my toenails look fabulous. Really just wonderful.