I’m pretty sure I might have hemorrhoids. I’ve been pretty sure for years, but there’s only irritation when I’ve been traveling and mess up my eating/sleeping/bathroom routines, like visiting multiple houses for Christmas can do.
But I’m worried about it today, because I’m back at work, where the paper is one step above corncobs in an outhouse. I’m sitting here with tears in my eyes and a twisting hot poker tip in my ass, when I figure some cold water might give me a wee bit of relief. I hold my breath and listen.
Quiet in the restroom. Quiet in the hall outside the door. Go time.
I spring upright, shuffle to the sink, soak a wad of paper in cold water, shut off the faucet, and then–BANG–the restroom door flings open.
I scurry back towards the stall, doing “the penguin” across the tile towards my igloo, refusing to look up at the intruder. I hit the latch as footsteps approach and then stop in the stall beside mine. I bend down to look at his shoes.
Brown work boots!
No one wears brown work boots in my office. I exhale slowly and relieve my sore anus, giving nary a damn that the Philistine in the work boots beside me saw my bare ass bunny-hopping into my safe haven.