Sweatin' with the Oldies

In my mid-40s, I've learned that a good schvitz with men from the old country can cure a host of problems

- by Jason Diamond

The Széchenyi thermal baths, Budapest, 1999.

AS THE SWEAT DRIPPED OFF ME, FALLING ONTO THE TILE floor before disappearing into vapor, the fog from my massively hungover brain began to clear. Maybe I would have been okay last night if I'd only drunk two martinis and a bottle of Chablis, I thought, but then I made the fatal error of tossing back a shot of fernet with the bartender. Even though I'm every bit of 45, I had attempted to relive my 20s. The night out ruined my morning, and I knew I'd get zero work done that day, so I did the only sensible thing: I had a schvitz. I knew that sitting in a steam room, and then drinking cold vodka and eating pierogies with a handful of fat guys from post-Soviet republics, and then letting a guy named Valery smack a bouquet of oak leaves all over my body, and then going back in for more steam, was the only activity that would heal me.

I hate sweating, but I love to schvitz. And because of my deeply held belief that this practice flushes out the toxins, my wife has suggested I return to the old country from which my ancestors escaped. But I also know that sitting in a steam-filled room as the temperature reaches 190 degrees is about more than just sweating out the bad stuff.

A good schvitz, hungover or not, is exactly what men need right now. In the right company, it not only soothes your physical discomfort but also—perhaps most important—rewires your brain.

Just please don't ask me to go to one of those trendy sauna spas. I don't want to cook in infrared lights at any place that promotes "wellness," and the idea of getting into a thermal pool with a bunch of 20-somethings sounds about as healthy as letting my baby sneeze in my face after she gets back from the playground.

No, I want an old-school schvitz.