When I was growing up I thought this sort of thing was normal, because I knew no differently. But as I got older it started to seem odd. My father was diagnosed with colorectal cancer (what else?) in 1992, and this opened a whole new world for all of us. “Lordy,” he’d say, after spending more than an hour in the bathroom, which, thanks to his ‘re-do’ featured a toilet seat that rivaled the comfiest of recliners. “Nothing’s simple anymore.” Including, we learned recently, the log he kept – pardon the pun – after his surgery, in which he listed, in great detail, all ass happenings. One of my brothers told tales about driving cross country and not realizing he was “overdue” until he was at least 100 miles from a toilet. So, since he’s never without wiping provisions, he’d pull over and do his business right out in the middle of it all, where his only fear was that a trucker might happen by and spot him. These stories were told in the house, in front of the fire or over late-morning coffee at the kitchen table, openly and with great pride. My sister in Oklahoma, according to her, has been constipated since the night of her wedding in 1988. She drives from one pharmacy to the next down there in Tulsa, moaning and groaning all the way, in search of relief. Depending on your viewpoint, another one of my brothers, who happens to have two ass-obsessed boys of his own, is either the worst, or the best. I cannot recall a conversation I’ve had with him in the past 20 years that has not, at one point or another, gotten around to the “one wiper.” One wipers, my brother believes, are the harbinger of a good day. They’re neat and clean, they’re easy. Have you had any good ones lately? he’ll ask. Then he’ll fondly recall his own most recent. The alternative to the one wiper, of course, is to be avoided: When it’s squirrelly in the morning, my brother has to go back for a touch up, if not two.
Years ago, I concluded that my family likes to talk about ass – a lot. I also realized that when you talk about ass every day, it’s not special. So my goal became to approach ass and the endless array of related topics in moderation. But then I was struck by the curse over the weekend, and that, I am here to report, changed everything.
It began, in earnest, on Thursday night, when I got onto a bus downtown to come home and remained standing the entire ride even though there were plenty of seats. Although Friday was worse, it was normal enough that I was still prone to embarrassment: I didn’t want to go to Walgreens and purchase a product manufactured specifically for my ass from a person I may need to face the next time I buy Doritos; and I did not want to call my neighbor Bruce and casually ask him if he could go over there for me and pick up some, you know, Preparation H. By Saturday it was a whole new world. By then it felt like a ragged, rusty steak knife, right down there, stuck in. I tip toed around the house for a bit and then set out for the drugstore, in so much agony that I don’t think I would have even noticed had an announcement been made to get some ass ointment for the guy in Aisle 4 … immediately. Sitting and standing were equally perilous, I learned. Laying down on the couch was okay, but getting into and out of the right position was excruciating, and it was never the right position for long. It was hot on Saturday so I kept the house closed up. The radio was annoying, but not as much as the silence. Nothing tasted very good. The hours slogged by, the pain worsened. I finished one book and began another.
And I realized, begrudgingly, that my family might be onto something when it comes to the importance of ass, hence its prominent role in almost all conversations. Consider this: I weigh approximately 180 pounds. So, if half that weight is situated above my waist, that’s 60 pounds of unrelenting pressure on my ass at all times, which makes it one piece of real estate that is indeed prime. At one point I was sitting at the table and I leaned back to check the time. If my torso were the minute hand on a clock, the movement of that gesture would have been like going about one-third of the way from 12 to 1. I thought I was going to faint. I wiggled my left foot to shake the flip-flop off, and it was deadly. White-hot lightening struck my ass directly when I reached down for my coffee mug and moved my right shoulder slightly forward in doing so. My God, I thought, I'm not sure how much more of this I can take.
But the most notable part of the weekend wasn’t the pain: it was the fact that it was discussed, not with my family, but with my neighbors. Cindy brought a bowl of beautiful red lettuce from her garden on Friday morning – not for its impact, but its freshness. “Well, I see you’re sitting down,” she said hopefully as she handed it to me. And on Saturday night Terry and Bruce and the dogs stopped over. I’d just had my bath, and was still in my robe and feeling slightly better. Have you ever experienced this? I asked once I'd tip-toed my way to the door, sort of tentatively but sort of not. I don’t want to go into too much detail about other people’s business, so I’ll have to close by saying that the conversation that followed my question would have made my father proud.
