Not for the faint-hearted. Or those looking for an opportunity to piss me off.

I have a pimple on my ass. A pimple on my (formerly known as “damn near perfect”) ass. How the hell did that happen?

I can understand getting them on my face, although that calamity typically only strikes me three or four times a year, always around the same time that I get a case of raging PMS so severe that it confirms the soundness of my judgment when I elected against an occupation that would bring me in contact with nuclear weapons and other cool toys. I mean, I wear makeup on my face with some regularity, and when you combine that with the bacteria that ordinarily crawls all over human skin and the humidity of living in the tropics - plus female hormones - well, pimples happen on occasion.

But on my ass?!!

It hurts, too, dammit. There’s no moving, no bending, no sitting comfortably without the constant reminder that my (formerly known as “damn near perfect”) ass has a flaw. An enormous, pus-filled, pulsing, red, hideously grotesque, painful flaw.

Damn it!

I am diligent about cleanliness. I shower every morning, usually go for a dip in the ocean when the weather is nice, and often end the day with yet another shower or bath. I change clothes more than a pre-teen girl: the instant something is uncomfortable or bores me, it’s quickly replaced with an outfit more suitable to my mood and the temperature. I exfoliate. I moisturize. I don’t wear makeup on my ass. But there it is: an icky red pimple.

Damn it!

Thing is, although I’m a fairly limber person, this sucker is situated so I can’t reach it. I’ve twisted my torso until I’m frighteningly close to looking like a pretzel. I’ve bent, leaned, hiked my hip and contorted myself into poses that, frankly, would make me a millionaire if I’d taken photos. (Pity: I can’t manage holding a camera and executing contortions at the same time.)

You know what this means, don’t you? It means I’m going to have to ask the Venomous Hubby for assistance. And that means I’m not going to be able to hide it. No pleading “I have a headache.” No turning the lights off and jumping under the covers before he can see the hideous thing. No wearing a Band-Aid and claiming injury. He’s going to find out. And he’s going to have to pop the fucker. This would most definitely fall under the “better or worse” part of our marriage vows, I think.

The very fact that I’m going to have to ask assistance is almost as humiliating as it is gross. I’m forced to recall episodes, many years ago, when my older sister gleefully popped the pimples on my older brother’s back when his teenage hormones and aversion to soap made his skin resemble a pizza. My sister - who had an unconscious habit of tugging out the hairs on the top of her head, one at a time, until she left a bald spot - positively revelled in poking and squeezing his skin eruptions. As for my brother, he got a kick out of the amount of pus she’d accumulate in one night of effort.

(Have I mentioned that my family members are all crazy?)

(Have I mentioned that I am adopted? Honest. I have the court papers to prove it.)

I did not marry a crazy man. The Venomous Hubby has his flaws, but they do not include inflicting pain on me without first being goaded with copious amounts of scotch and my donning of a French Maid outfit. Nope. He has sensibilities. Aesthetics. A deep appreciation for the (formerly damn near) perfection of my hindquarters. This is going to hurt him almost as much as it’s going to hurt me.

But the plain truth of the matter is that this thing must go. I am getting a lower back ache from having to rest on one side of my rump due to the soreness radiating from the behemoth that grows on the other side. I am wincing with every step I take when the fabric from my sarong (the most non-constricting clothing I own) rubs up against it. I am damn near nauseous from the knowledge that this ghastly thing is growing on me. It must die.

I am not the praying type, but I am making an exception just this one time. Please, God, don’t let there be a scar!

And I mean that for the preservation of Hubby’s fond memories as well as my ass.

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