By The Time You Finish Reading This You’ll Wish You Had A Torn Meniscus Too

You don’t always get choices about what happens to you in life. Things happen. Sometimes that thing is that you tear your meniscus and it turns into a dragged-out affair in which you take way too much ibuprofen and eventually have to walk with a cane. All because the insurance company seems to prefer that you live with the pain for several months before you are permitted to have the surgery that will fix it. Because that is how they roll. 

And some people – I feel kind of bad for these people – might believe that having to use a cane is bad news all around. How old am I, anyway? they might think. Or, oh I just wish this pain would go away and I could walk normally again! This is a shame, because all they really need to do is to realize that there is such a thing as a “Stiletto Rapier Cane.” Then, instead of feeling elderly-ish and sad when they’re walking down the street, they can feel more like a movie villain with a deadly walking stick. The product description of the “Stiletto Rapier Cane” boasts that it makes “walking a pleasure and defending yourself truly possible.” As I hobble down any given street, leaning on my entirely average cane, I project an aura that says, “Go ahead, try to take my purse. Try to even speak to me, because I feel rather introverted today and there is a lethal weapon inside this cane with which I will not hesitate to take your right arm off.” 

Actually now I see that the “Stiletto Rapier Cane” has been discontinued. No matter. The website has a whole category called “Sword Canes,” and the fact that such a thing exists is really all you need to know. I was never suggesting you actually buy one. Please don’t. Just adopt the attitude. Like me. 

This is what they call the bright side. 

Next time I think I’ll pick one like this.

Life got even better for me after I finally had the surgery and was released from the hospital with an actual walker. They were going to give me crutches but then they saw my tremendously unstable gait and decided a walker would be much easier. The nurse seemed surprised that I didn’t protest. “People your age generally don’t want the walker,” she said. Apparently when you are 46 like me, you are supposed to want crutches because they give a more youthful appearance. “Oh yeah? Well, whatevs,” I told her, to show how young I really am.  

I am considering buying a basket for the front of the walker and using it forever. Imagine having something to lean on, everywhere you go. You’re crossing the parking lot to visit your dad at the nursing home and you feel like you need a break sometimes, am I right? And then, even better, you get to actually go in to the nursing home — with a walker! Now you can feel like one of the gang. No more worries about not fitting in. It’s like being in eighth grade and finally getting your ears pierced when all your friends have had earrings for years. Fabulous. 

Today I am going to unwrap the bandage from my knee and I’m telling you, it will be like taking off a painful pair of shoes after a long night at a wedding of people you don’t particularly like. It will be so wonderful that I may actually cry, and then I will take some more of my pain pills and point at things I need my kids to bring to me. “My Kindle,” I’ll say. “It’s right over there… can you get it? Oh, and while you’re up, I could probably use the ice pack too.” 

Honestly, though. I mean, if I’m being perfectly honest, I guess I’m not really anxious to tear my other meniscus. I’ll be glad to put this minor injury – because it is truly quite minor, in the grand scheme of things – behind me. But if I do end up in this situation again, I will know how to look on the bright side. Because as I tell people all the time, there is always a goddamned bright side. 

 

Daddy And The Ass Soap

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about challenges in life. Tragedies. The unexpected, the twist and turns, the things one doesn’t see coming as one is going about one’s business thinking that everything is cool. Some of these curve balls are truly horrible, traumatic, depression material-type things. Some of them are just stupid.

It is the stupid things that I’m talking about today. Specifically, Daddy and the Ass Soap. As the title of this post may have suggested.

I guess I was probably in my late teens to early twenties when my dad decided that his rear end required special treatment above and beyond your typical cleansing routine. I am not sure why because quite frankly, I did not want to discuss it with him in any level of detail. All I know for sure is that a special, more gentle brand of soap was purchased and when we asked why there were now two kinds of soap in the shower we were told, “Don’t touch that one. It’s Daddy’s ass soap.”

Along with the ass soap, there eventually came to also be an ass towel, which hung there drying on the towel rod in the bathroom shower. I don’t know why there had to be a separate towel because, again, I wasn’t asking. Seriously, would you? You would not. No one would.

I’d go to take a shower and see a bath towel already hanging in there. “Dad!” I’d call out. “Come get your ass towel out of here!”

And he’d come and do it, instead of yelling back that I should do it myself. It was not that he was protecting me from having to touch the ass towel. My dad was never protecting us from his ass. He was protecting his ass from us.

This is not what the soap looked like, but it may as well have.

In case you think my dad would be embarrassed by my writing this, let me assure you he would not. He was very proud of his regimen. In fact he once announced to my whole family that he had “the cleanest asshole in the state of Pennsylvania.” I wanted to get a banner made to hang on the front of our house. My dad would likely have gone along with that and enjoyed it immensely.

As for my mother – well. You kind of have to wonder whether, standing at the altar with her groom in 1963, she could have ever, ever seen this coming. One day, this man I’ve chosen to marry will have an entire ass protocol that I will have no choice but to respect. Of course she didn’t see that coming. That is the thing about life: there is always some new trick right around the corner.

The key, if you ask me, is to know this. And not only to know it, but to accept it and go with it and not try to fight every little thing. There will always be nice and wonderful things, and then there will always be husbands that terrorize you with ass concerns. And there will be worse things than that.

Things change. Bathrooms become overtaken by Daddy’s ass equipment. Have a laugh where you can and keep moving. Also, I guess, keep your ass clean. And be careful which towel you use, because you never know.