THIS IS ALL HER FAULT SO DON'T BLAME ME

At some point in everyone's life, the word "colonoscopy" raises its ugly head and nothing will ever be the same. I am the perfect case in point. Let me start this out with a little background information. To begin with, I was the kid in grammar school who had to raise her hand to go pee while class was in session because she could never pee if anyone else was in the bathroom with her. This has led to years of kidney and bladder infections.

As far as taking a poop, I had a saying, "I don't poop and if I did, it would smell like "roses." I didn't talk about it, I didn't acknowledge the fact that I, or anyone else, pooped, and as far as I was concerned, that porcelain bowl sitting on the floor of the bathroom did not exist.

Then, low and behold, a few years ago, at age 50 or so, I was told to hit the gastroenterologist for a probing known as a "colonoscopy." This was well before cute, little Katie Couric lost a husband to colon cancer and had a much publicized colonoscopy on television. Assholes aren't so sacrosanct anymore. Mine, however, was not so entertaining. I ordered all the drugs there were available and then some. The prep is something I don't even want to go into, suffice to say the next colonoscopy found me far more prepared with a number of handy little aids: Zinc Oxide Ointment, Aloe Vera Wet Wipes and plenty of shallow magazines for bathroom reading.

Of course, the first colonoscopy had to show some of the pesky pre-malignant polyps which means that for the following two years, there will be an annual probing, so to speak. Somewhere in between the first and second colonoscopy I found that the discussion of my asshole and its habits seemed to slip into conversation a bit easier. I was no longer so retentive regarding my bathroom habits.

The other thing that is important to mention is the personality of the physician who was performing the anal probes. None. Nil. Not a smidgen. I am sure if I were looking at the ass end of people's personality, I wouldn't have such a rosy outlook on life, but I would certainly recognize that a patient's needs for a few giggles in an uncomfortable situation. This man appeared to have the personality of a glass of warm water. My perfect match, so to speak.

On the third go round, there were a few mishaps in the "operating" room. First of all, he couldn't find his stethoscope. I could detect that the nurses in the room were just a little tired of "His Royal Assholishness" and his demands and the kind of had a tinge of sarcasm in their voices as they pointed out that that it was hanging on a hook right next to him. I made eye contact with one of them, rolled my eyes and got a little lift at the corner of her mouth.

Now one of the advantages of this procedure is the drugs. Drugs to kill pain, drugs to relax and drugs to help you not remember. I had had the first two and was a little giddy and enjoying it as only an aging hippie can when the Doc started asking me questions. What the hell was this. He'd never even acknowledged that I was anything more than an Asshole (joining the ranks of my ex-husbands) in the past.

"Have you ever had hemorrhoids before?" What the f**k? Not only is this man probing my asshole, he wants ME to talk about it. I fall back on my customary and obligatory sarcasm and answer, "Not until I started hanging out with you!" The nurses and I lost it at the same time. We were cracking up, I would have sworn one of them had blown some snot as quickly as she reached for a Kleenex. Doc, now Doc didn't crack a grin. And the look he gave the nurses caused guffaws to diminish to snorts to huffs and then to silence. I thought it was my best line ever, or at least up there at the top of the list somewhere.

So since my asshole has been viewed by a variety of strangers on a number of occasions, and since one of my best lines ever took place during one of these experiences, I have readily joined the masses of middle aged women who can and will readily speak of their assholes and its experiences.