So, you guys. Since the last time we talked, I have showed my actual ass to strangers. Twice.
No, I did not start mooning people on purpose and it’s not like the voices are telling me to run around naked. I am pretty sure if I ever get “voices” they’re just going to tell me to put a sweater on and to give kale another chance.
One ass showing was an accident, the second one was not.
I am a “put things off until the situation is terribly uncomfortable” kinda girl. I am also a hypochondriac. The one thing I always get done every year, on time, is my mammogram and my lady doctor check up. I have lived in fear of my reproductive organs turning on me for decades now. I want that shit checked out. Hypochondria 1, Procrastination 0.
That doesn’t mean I look forward to these visits.
I arrived to my appointment and a nurse led me into an examination room. There was the hospital gown made out of white material with little blue dots. That material is exclusively used for doctor’s offices and old man pajamas. The nurse asked me to remove all my clothing and wait for the doctor. Fuck you. I’m leaving my socks on.
I always forget which side to leave open, the front or the back.
Then, logic reminds me an exam is happening in the front, not in the back. That’s a different doctor.
I had to pee a little and, lo and behold, there was a bathroom, right there! In my room!
I had settled on the “robe open in the front” logic, but didn’t bother tying the robe shut. I knew the doctor wouldn’t be in for at least 5 or 6 more minutes. When I’m left alone to disrobe and robe up in a doctor’s office, I channel the god Mercury and get that shit done in under 30 seconds. The fear of being walked in on is great. Which is really dumb because she’s going to be all up in my business anyway.
Anyway, I hopped off the table, strolled across the room, my arms chugging at my side. I hummed as I opened the door and stepped inside the bathroom. Be bop a boo bop diddy bop my shit is hanging out and I don’t care. I have to pee and FOR ALL THAT IS FUCKING HOLY.
There were two doors. Two. The door to my room was closed. The other door was not closed. The other door opened up to the whole goddamn world. If we can agree that the whole goddamn world begins on the 4th floor of a medical building by a nurses station.
It’s possible that I inadvertently exposed even more of my person than necessary.
My reaction to seeing the hustle and bustle of staff and patients, while I stood in plain view wearing nothing but socks and a slack hospital gown, was to gasp, pirouette, and claw at my gown to pull it shut. I may have pirouetted a bit too hard before clutching the gown closed. If I had just calmly pulled my robe shut, without making a noise, and walked with dignity to the open door and closed it, I probably wouldn’t have been seen at all.
Oh well, how many of them would I ever see again? Seriously, how many? Because I’m working out how long I should stay mortified. My face just stopped being purple yesterday morning.
Nah, that’s an exaggeration. I’m not mortified. I stopped being mortified by the time I finished peeing and got back to the exam table. This is what I love about getting older. I process shit pretty quick now. It doesn’t fucking matter. If it happened, it goddamn happened. Nothing I can do about it. I just hope at least one person has a funny story to tell friends about the dancing chubby lady who showed her bits to the world.
The second time I showed my ass was because of mother’s day.
Joey, my baby boy, got me a gift certificate for a massage to this amazing local place who have their massage tables surrounded by fur covered platforms. The therapist has to sort of crawl and scoot about to give the massage. It’s a little weird, but I’ve been there twice now and both times were magnificent. The second time better than the first.
I like my massage therapists like I like my OB/GYNs. Female.
I did not get a female massage therapist. I got a Brian.
Brian is probably at least 10 years younger than I am. Not old or anything, but not young either. Brian had only been a massage therapist for 8 months. Within 10 minutes, Brian worked out knots in my back which have been there since the ’90’s.
I don’t get full body massages anymore. I ask the therapist to focus on my neck, shoulders, and back. I have a variation of the following conversation with all massage therapists:
Me: We will only have time for my neck, shoulders, and back, so you should just focus on those spots.
Massage therapist: Oh, don’t worry. I get a lot of people who are tense. We’ll be fine.
Approximately 3 minutes later:
MT: Oh. Okay. You really have some trouble spots.
Brian made progress so fast that I didn’t object when he started on my legs. For the record, unbeknownst to me, I have bigger knots in my ham strings than I do my shoulder blades.
Then, the most uncomfortable, yet incredible thing happened. Brian asked me if I wanted him to work on my “hips”. I fucking know what that is code for. “Hips” is code for “butt”. My very first post on this blog was about this very subject. No. No on the butt touching. Well, the post was about no boob touching, but I mentioned the no butt touching thing.
I totally let Brian touch my butt.
I am not going to lie. I wasn’t entirely comfortable. Or comfortable at all. But it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be. And it wasn’t like the butt cheek was exposed. I couldn’t bring myself to take my underwear off. That’s too weird. So he had to massage through the sheet and my underwear, but it still felt like a sweet moment of butt cheek heaven.
I have no idea what that actually means. A sweet moment of butt cheek heaven. I can leave it up to you guys to figure it out.
I guess I didn’t show my actual ass this second time, but there was still a lot of skin exposed to a stranger. He won’t be a stranger when I go back next month. I’m starting to think maybe, perhaps, there’s a teeny tiny possibility I can get rid of the always present knots in my back and shoulders.
Okay, totally switching gears here. But Did You Die is out and available for sale! I mailed some copies out to a few of you that Randy chose at random. If you would like an autographed copy for 15.00 , then hit the “contact” button and send me an email and I will send one your way.