You Poor Asshole

I know you are going to laugh. I would laugh too if it wasn’t me. Laugh all you want. One day this will be you. And then it will be my turn to laugh. So there.

I have a hemorrhoid, painful and lonely, hanging around where it isn’t wanted. Believe the Preparation H ads. They are not lying to you. It is painful, and itchy, and sore. Sitting is challenging, as is standing and moving. Oh, and lying down too. But more than the physical discomfort is the psychological trauma associated with an unwanted anal protrusion. I am embarrassed, even blushing, while typing about my ass. It is awkward to tell your spouse or your friends, even those with whom you share all your intimate details. But I had to tell someone, first for a second opinion, and then for some validation.

I ambushed my husband in the bathroom. “I have to tell you something and I don’t want to,” I informed him.
“Just tell me.”
“I can’t, I am too embarrassed.”
“Just do it, it can’t be that bad.”
But it was that bad. “Something is wrong with my butt, and I don’t know what it is.”
“Like what? Is it bleeding?”
“Not anymore,” I answered hopefully. “But it was yesterday, and today there is a lump and it hurts.”
“Oh, that’s probably just a hemorrhoid,” he said, like he dealt with assholes all day instead of mouths.
“Should you look at it?”
“I don’t think that is necessary.”
“Well, what am I going to do?”
“Go buy some preparation H.”
“Could you do it for me? I am too embarrassed.”
“No, I’m not going to buy that for you. Buy it yourself.”
How helpful. I will remember that when he gets his first hemorrhoid. Except now we have preparation H in our medicine cabinet, so he won’t need to go buy it himself. Maybe it will expire before then. And then I will remind him of what he said to me, about buying my own. Ha!

I went to my friend B’s house after dinner to take a walk. Somehow moving seemed like a better idea than sitting by the end of the day. I drove to her house, easing over any potholes in the road.
When our feet hit the pavement, I said to her, “I have something I have to tell you, and I don’t want you to look at me while I tell you.” Yes, I needed to tell her. I was mincing along the road next to her, and I was concerned my entire 28 feet of intestines might come spilling out, so I thought it was a tidbit of data that might be helpful to her in case of a rectal emergency.
“Okay,” she said, looking at the house across the street. “Let’s hear it.”
“I think I have a hemorrhoid,” I confessed.
“Oh, is that all? I thought you had something big to tell me.” “It’s big to me, huge, and painful too.”
“But everyone gets those. It’s not that big a deal.” That’s why I told B in the first place. Not much is a big deal to her, certainly not about the human body. She helps me keep things in perspective. “Did you try tucking it back in?”
I was surprised by this comment, as I had indeed tried that, but I didn’t expect her to know about tucking. I knew to try it after looking up asshole problems on the Internet that afternoon, and along with some unflattering anonymous photos, I found some great advice on how to deal with this predicament from the comfort of your own home before breaking down and going public with your ass, and by that I mean the doctor’s office and not YouTube.
“I did try that!” I exclaimed. “All it did was make my hemorrhoid angry at me.” I looked over at B, who was gazing at the sky and trying to not laugh out loud.
“How did you get it?” Now here is a question that no one, no matter how close a friend or family member, should ask. Does anyone really want to know what caused the hemorrhoid? Is it objective curiosity, or a desire to avoid that activity? The answers came flying fast, none of which were factual. I bought it at Target, in the anal accessories department. I popped it out while bull riding. I choked on my ice and coughed until I burst at my nether seam. I was trying to win a world record by shoving as many socket wrenches up my ass as possible, but suffered trauma upon removal. I had a high heel wedged up there. I decided to go with the truth, which as usual was the most mortifying.
“I fell asleep in the car while my husband drove us home from out of town yesterday, and I guess he swerved or hit the brakes, but I was startled awake with such force that I clenched my butt and felt like I pulled something. When we got home, I checked myself in the bathroom since I still felt sore, and I was bleeding. And ever since then, I have had my problem.” Yes, it was true; I got a hemorrhoid from waking up too quickly.
B laughed harder, and then made me promise to get some medicine to make it better. I told her to forget we ever had our conversation. “What conversation?” she asked, stifling a snort.

Thanks to my hemorrhoid, I can hang up any last hopes of being a porn star. Age and childbearing has ruined the front half of my body, so I figured that the only option that remained was graphic anal sex, but it seems that too is now out of the question. Although, I am sure if I looked hard enough, and hell no, I don’t want to, I am sure there is a website devoted to lumpy assholes. (And if you don’t believe me, go Google jarmel berries.)
I wasn’t planning on quitting my day job, but right now, sitting around on my ass doing nothing isn’t all that comfortable. I suppose there is always the possibility of creating a diamond mine in there, since I am able to clench with such force that I’m sure I can render carbon into precious gemstones with little difficulty. Or, I could just suck it up, go to the CVS, hide the Preparation H tube among other benign drug store purchases, and hope the clerk thinks I am planning on using it for my puffy eye bags. Then I can stop obsessing on my asshole and get back to my other obsessions, like my puffy eye bags and how to launch my porn career.