One weekend
in college, my roommates and I cracked open some boxed wine. The bag nearly
drained, we decided to bring our drunk selves to some unfortunate bar. But
first, I had to get ready.
For whatever
stupid reason back then, I was adamant about my hair being pin-straight for all
special occasions—most importantly for those occasions I hardly remember. I ran
to my bedroom to heat up the straightening iron at my desk/vanity/dinner table,
and then returned to nurse my mug of wine. After a few pre-gaming
gulps, I returned to iron my hair. The strands scorched to an acceptable crisp, I
placed the iron on my chair and grabbed some clothes. I picked a shirt,
skirt, and the choice to not adorn my undercarriage with full-coverage briefs. Noticing
my eye makeup needed a touch-up, I sat at my desk and felt a lava-like heat
down there I’ll never forget. I landed—bare ass, skirt up—on the iron and
shot straight back up in surprise. The brilliant part comes after: I was so
drunk that my reaction was to sit back down to calm my butt cheek’s fury. I
then shot up a second time, outraged that I ironed my ass not once but twice.
Luckily for my nerves, I was mentally checked out so it didn’t hurt too badly.
I definitely went out dancing and shook my second-degree burned ass.
I woke up
the next day with the heat of a thousand brands on my fanny. Sunday was a
workday—eight frustrating hours at Home Depot awaited. As I changed, I caught a
glimpse of my posterior in the mirror and saw the shame lines. Since I sat
twice on the iron dead center, and knowing there are two heated plates, the
burns had blistered across both cheeks for a total of eight blister strips (is
that the scientific term?). The constant pain wasn’t too terrible; no, the real
issue was surface interaction. When I sat down in my car, I catapulted my
pelvis into the air feeling the shock down under. I don’t know how common butt
blisters are, but they are TENDER BUBBLES. I had to perch on my car seat like a
one-legged catcher and used my free leg to accelerate and brake. Since
cashiers generally stand at post, the blisters could breathe more freely. Outside of cashiering, however, I learned that you don’t stand for much of anything. I had to perch at home and in class. After two days of living like an owl, I
was perched on the carpet writing a paper. I wanted to protect the butt bubbles,
but I couldn’t squat another second. I took a deep breath and plopped my ass on
the floor. You don’t really know weird feelings until eight ass blisters squish
under your weight into carpet. Luckily the apartment was a rental.
You’re
probably wondering why I would tell such an embarrassing tale. Well, it’s been over
10 years, so whatever statute of shame limitation exists must have expired by now. What rekindled this memory was the warning on my straightening iron I noticed the other day:
Peculiar
warnings like this must be derived from an actual incident, right? In a world where
someone has tried to straighten their eye (lashes, brows, balls?), I guess burning ass isn't the craziest thing they need to forewarn.
