Things happen to me. Weird things. Injuries that no normal person would ever have to worry about. Insects bite me and leave bruises that make it look like I’ve been punching telephone poles. Cats dart under my feet, causing me to land face-first on doorsteps. I give myself black eyes with inanimate objects like telephones (while sober). It’s no surprise, then, that I often find myself the butt of a joke that only I am laughing at.
Last night, I had a bit of whiskey. I’ve been on a bit of a jag this week, really–but it wasn’t the whiskey’s fault. It would have happened with or without whiskey. These sorts of injuries are determined to happen to me, regardless of the circumstances.
I got home late, maybe three-thirty. I was tired, and as soon as I walked into my room, I dropped everything I was carrying and went to change into my pajamas. I keep my dirty laundry in my closet, so after I took off my pants, I walked across my room toward the closet to throw my pants in the basket. So there I was, pantless, shuffling across my slidey floor in my big cozy winter socks, and I went to avoid stepping on something that was on my floor and I lost my balance, stumbling and falling backwards into a large plastic storage bin that was in the middle of my room (filled, thankfully, with laundry and not something less forgiving). When I landed in the bin, there was a loud cracking noise, and the bin splintered into jagged pieces, several of which gouged chunks out of my skin, the largest and most painful of which was right in the middle of my left butt cheek.
I broke a plastic box with my butt. And it broke my butt back. The damn thing drew blood. And as anyone who’s ever been spanked can tell you, the skin on the posterior is among the most sensitive on the human body. It hurts to sit down, even on cushioned surfaces. Hot water is excruciating. I can’t put anything in my left back pocket. I have a bruise the size, color, and shape of a ripe plum. I look like I’ve been punched in the ass by a midget.
I laugh at myself a lot, and the moment of impact was no exception. I sat in the laundry bin for two or three minutes–stunned, cut up, bruised and pantless–and I laughed. I laughed until tears came to my eyes. It felt good. And I couldn’t wait to tell the story so that I could make someone else laugh. I thought to myself that my father would have laughed, too. And had he still been alive, he would be the first person I’d have called–though I probably would have left out the part about being pantless.
In the morning I woke up, whiskey-headed and groggy, and when I went to sit up in bed, I felt the sharp pain in my patookus and remembered and laughed until I cried all over again. And then I called my friend Sarah and brightened her morning with my story of a busted buttocks.