Many years ago, I attended grad school in Vermont. Chuck was a little under the weather at the time, but he wanted to spend New Year’s Eve with me so he drove from Connecticut to Vermont.
T’aint that sweet?
When he arrived, he didn’t look so hot. He was pasty white and grumpy. He was walking like he’d just dismounted a horse.
What bothered me most was that he wouldn’t sit down. We were celebrating New Year’s Eve at a local bar; everyone wanted to know why my sketchy boyfriend wouldn’t sit down. Why was he standing against the wall looking miserable? Damn him!
I got up and accused Chuck of being anti-social. I accused him of not wanting to sit near me because he didn’t love me. I went and sat back down.
(I may have been wasted at that point.)
Still, the man wouldn’t sit.
Finally he told he me why: He had a hemorrhoid, and it felt like he had a hot poker in his ass. He had just spent six hours in the car. If he didn’t stand, he might die.
At the time I thought, Bah! How much could a hemorrhoid hurt? Those people on TV who needed ointments and medicated pads and toilet paper made of down comforters were a bunch of sissies. I told Chuck as much. Even after he drove home and his nurse of a mother lanced the thing because he was crying from the pain—I still doubted him.
Years later, when Chuck needed surgery for his hiney, I still rolled my eyes when he groaned about the alleged hot poker feeling.
How much could it hurt? Suck it up! Butts can’t hurt.
Wrong. I have an appointment to see the proctologist in one hour. If he can relieve me from my pain, I will kiss his feet. And Chuck? If I could go back in time, I would not only stand next to you at the bar, I’d cram an ice pack between your cute little buttcheeks and knit a carry case for your surgical donut.
I'm sorry, okay?
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