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Whenever I've taught a writing class or been in a critique group, I've preached, “never censor yourself”. A writer must be able to broach any topic. So today, though I find myself with a sensitive topic, I'll write about it anyhow.

A week ago Sunday was a rainy day in Seymour. I'd been stuck inside, yearning to be out walking. Around 8:00 pm the rain stopped so I decided to take a mile walk down over to Highway 54. The sidewalks were still wet and had turned the beige shade they always do when wet. The night was dark and the streetlights weren't up to the task of fully lighting my way. About two blocks on, I came to a spot where gardeners lived. The rain had washed through their flower beds leaving a path of mud over the sidewalk. The mud was the same shade as the sidewalk and was as slippery as ice. I took one step onto the mud and flew down on my right side.

I immediately thought I might have broken a hip, but was able to crawl up to standing, once I caught my breath. Covered in mud, I limped home.

Two days later we were camping. My right side was sore, but I thought nothing much about it. There is no full length mirror in the camper so I never examined my derriere, nor thought about asking Gary about it. With temperatures hovering near freezing, we were wearing long underwear. Frolicking in the nude was not in the cards.

On Saturday, I returned to Seymour. As I was changing for bed, I glanced at full length mirror and was shocked...then interested. My right buttock was bruised all right, it was a gaudy show that looked like a purple tie-died shirt and almost the same size. It was the most elaborate bruise I've ever had, and that included the time I fell on my face.

Herein lies the problem. If one breaks an arm, one can show a cast. When one has surgery, one can sometimes show scars. When I fell on my face, the ambulance came and the local paper showed a photo of my black and blue eyes. There was sympathy from everyone I knew. Buttocks are another story.

I offered to show my bottom to Mary at the bookstore. She declined. I suggested the same to Susan when I met her at the farmers' market. No way, she said. I saw my best friend Norma two days ago, but she also refused to take a look. It almost made me want to go to the emergency room to show off the glory of my ass. No one gives any sympathy for a buttock injury.

So when I returned to Laura Lake, I told Gary to take a look. Gary is a gem of a partner. He reads about all things medical, understands such things as haematoma and was perfectly willing to take a look. He marveled at the bruise and even offered to take a photo. He also noted that I was listing to port so we discovered that the right buttock had swollen up.

He gave me no sympathy either but at least we could discuss the situation and laugh about it. I became the butt of his buttock jokes. I've heard far too many over the past twenty four hours. I finally tuned him out and  turned the other cheek, so to speak.

I expect to read even more bad puns in the comments area.

There is nothing I cannot share with Gary, bless his heart.  This is why humans need mates, I conclude. It is to have a partner to share our sorrows, joys, and injuries.

Note: I am still somewhat circumspect. I have not included a photograph with this essay.