I’m loathe to admit it, but the heat in my office occasionally gives rise to a generously proportioned zit on my ass. It’s usually nestled between the cheeks, hidden from view unless one goes looking. More often than not, I give my boyfriend a heads up. I’d rather warn him than contend with his expression of shock should he happen to stumble upon it.
Last week in the shower I noticed a large blue mark on my ass. It wasn’t biologically based, an errant vein or unnoticed bruise. Its hue was closer to neon spandex or a form of chemical waste. It was also water resistant.
Whatever its origin, it had no place on my ass.
“What could this be?” I asked my boyfriend.
“Huh? What could what be?”
The mark was in a difficult spot to view. Risking spinal cord injury, I leaned over, twisted to the right, and yanked at my flesh. Twist, pull. Twist, pull. “Right there,” I said. “Can you see it?”
“Wow,” my boyfriend said. “That’s one hell of a zit.”
“Great,” I sighed. “That’s just great.”
I stood up, took a deep breath. “Everyone gets an ass zit every now and then,” I told myself. “Even Nicole Kidman.”
Soothed by the image of Nicole Kidman with an ass boil, I repositioned myself under a stronger lamp. “Here,” I said, pointing to the offending area. “”Look. It’s right here.”
“Oh yeah,” my boyfriend said. “Now I see it.”
“What the hell is it?”
“Huh,” he said, scratching his head. “I don’t know.” Then, “Have you worn anything bright lately? Anything that might have bled?”
Naturally, I’d examined every blue to periwinkle object in my apartment as if on CSI.
No shade compared to my ass tattoo.
“No,” I said. “Not even close.”
Clearly, the answer wasn’t going to present itself just then. Jake and I shrugged, turned on the TV and went to bed.
This morning I flopped down on the couch with my coffee. I looked once, then again. There it was on the cushion: the residue of a blue M&M. I suddenly recalled falling asleep there while eating candy two nights prior.
Apparently, a blue M&M has made its way to my ass.
Apparently, I’d rolled around on it.
I do not relish the confession that I molested an M&M in my sleep. Any more than I do shaving one leg and forgetting the other, plugging an extension cord into itself or wondering where the hell I parked. And yet. . .
I manage to make them all happen.The Password | Insomnia: An Email To My Guy Friend →