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Photo: Rob McEwan/©MGM/Courtesy Everett Collection

So here we are, me and two friends, hanging out at the spa. Just us guys. Hanging out. In the baths. Together. The whole thing probably sounds a little weird, I guess. The moment we get down here, we acknowledge the weirdness ourselves. "Yup. Just a few dudes, hanging in a bath together," "Yup," "Yup."

But then we're floating in the salt bath, just bobbing along and we start to feel so good it's as if we're all stoned. A communal high. A natural high—I've heard of those, and now I have one!

See, like just about every 20-something single guy who is not Mormon, my friends and I typically hang out in restaurants and bars. It's fun, the power-eating and the endless drinking. But maybe a tiny bit monotonous, and not necessarily so great for us in the long term.

Here in the spa, it's business as usual really—we talk about work, other friends, girl issues, summer plans—and we're just as relad as we'd be after a few rounds of Tequila. Maybe more relad. There's definitely a lot of, "Oh man, this is nice, I needed this." And we never would've been here if I hadn't suffered an acute case of PTSD: Post-Traumatic Spa Disorder.

Not long ago, just before I went on vacation, I felt like I needed a pre-vacation to de-caffeinate and peel myself from my iPhone. Living in New York City, there are very few ways to achieve that. The only real option, particularly on short notice and a budget, is a spa. So I asked around for some recommendations and was referred to Aire Ancient Baths, a modern-day recreation of ancient Roman baths. (Except this one requires swimsuits.) The chance to behave like some high-born senator from ancient Rome? I was sold. Literally sold: It cost $78 for 90 minutes, and I was so stressed out that those 1-900 sex line prices actually seemed fair.

I headed downtown after work one day, eager for some quality Me Time, only to find myself wracked with anxiety about being the only solo dude in the entire place. It was mostly couples, plus two girlfriends, and then me. I was the creepy guy who goes to an ancient Roman bath house alone. Super fun! But I was already there, so I couldn't turn back.

I found a pool toward the back of the place and sat there alone, pondering things. An hour seemed to pass, and then I looked at the clock: it had been maybe twenty minutes. I tried joining pools already occupied by couples. You can guess how well that went. Whenever I arrived at a new pool, I'd get the same looks. The couples' faces all screamed, "Get away, freak boy," just before they'd exit. It was as though I'd crawled right into bed with them, and then farted.

The outing was as uncomfortable for me as it was for them—and a hell of a lot lonelier. I left after 45 minutes, walked across the street to eat cookies (also alone), and then went out drinking.

With my friends the whole experience is different. It's basically just going swimming with your buddies—except there's temperature control, a medieval-sounding band and some really well thought-out mood lighting.

The three of us, musketeer like, set out on a mission to find the warmest bath we can to relax. This leads us to a giant hot tub, which already has a few bathers in it. We step in, and they step out. Just like last time! Except unlike last time, I feel awesome about it. We've got this shit to ourselves. Private hot tub!

After we have our fill of the hot tub, we head to the "tepidarium" pool. That's fancy spa talk for a pool of tepid water, I guess. Anyway it's quiet and tucked into a corner. "This is where they'd kill you in the old days," my buddy says. We start to unwind and begin talking about our usual crap. It's nice—like a trip to the bar, except with less potential for cirrhosis. Possibly we're a little too loud, using our Drinking Voices instead of our Bath Voices. While I'm enthusiastically telling a story from the office, a woman comes over and lowers her hands at me as if shutting an invisible car trunk, which is apparently a sign for me to keep it down. Sorry for partying, I guess? We head for a new bath and leave her in her quietude.

In due time we hit all the pools (except a freezing one with ice cubes in it) and the steam room. By the end, we're just laying on the floor. It s like when I was a little kid and would collapse from being out in the sun all day with my little-kid friends. Comfortably numb. And not the least bit self-conscious.

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