As the criminal defendant’s mother said to her criminal defendant son, “Boy, you’d better get up off your broke ass and start acting like you got sense!”
Amen. Truer words were never spoken.
As you might suspect—thanks to my profession—I hear numerous references to some sort of “broke ass” in one way or another on a daily basis. Of course, when I hear the aforementioned reference, it hits me rather personally. You see, I quite literally have a “broke ass.”
The famed grace of the Southern Belle doth continue to elude me. Sigh...
Once upon a time—about ten years ago—fun loving Aunt Ashley was trying to entice her niece/goddaughter into going down a wavy slide at the park. It was a long slide and the waves were up and down rather than zig zag/side to side.
A couple of other children went down the side while we watched and they not only lived to tell the tale, but they laughed and squealed on their way down as though they were having actual fun. Unfortunately, my niece wasn’t going to be satisfied until I’d personally checked the survival rate of the equipment. “No big deal,” I thought to myself, “I can get up there without a problem and it really doesn’t look all that bad.”
Accordingly, I kissed Sweet Pea on the cheek and climbed onto playground equipment that is much more complicated in this day and age than what you and I have ever had to deal with. Nonetheless, I made it to the top, waived to my excited little Monkey Pie on the ground and slid down into the abyss.
As has been pointed out to me so many times that it is really frigging annoying, I am not an engineer. Accordingly, in my race to appease my sweet little Pudding Pop, I’d failed to take a couple of important factors into consideration:
1. The little shits that went down the slide before us were wearing jeans which are a thicker and rougher material than the knit pants I had on. Thicker and rougher means more resistance and results in a slower, safer ride; and
2. The little bastards were, in fact, little. Gravity didn’t pull at their tiny little bodies quite as badly as it did at mine.
So, I went on down the slide and, the faster I went (and I was really gaining speed), the more air I caught each time I slid over a bump. By the time I got to the last bump, I flew up in the air high and fast and my butt hit the bottom of the slide with a powerful whack.
The pain was immediate and indescribably intense. I also had the extra obstacle of hiding the searing pain from my three year-old niece. It hurt like a sonofabitch to keep sitting there at the bottom of the slide, so I creakily stood up and that hurt like a sonofabitch, too. I tried as calmly as I could to suggest that my niece and I walk on home and she agreed quickly since my slide performance still appeared to be a touch too harrowing in spite of my bravado.
I waddled pitifully back to her mama and daddy’s house where my Cupcake loudly told all present that the slide “broke my Aunt Ashley.”
We were visiting in Raleigh and I had a long ride home to Wilmington in my all too immediate future. Seat belt laws be damned, I rode home with my knees on the passenger side floorboard with my head resting in my arms on the passenger seat and my fun was only just getting started.
Being as categorically graceless as I am, it proved very fortuitous over the years to live right behind my orthopedic surgeon. Of course, such familiarity doesn’t necessarily prove helpful when your doctor can barely stop laughing long enough to tell you that you have a broken coccyx and that you have to sit on an inflatable donut for four to six weeks. There’s nothing else to be done—although I strongly feel that they should allow removal of the stupid bone since we have evolved past the need for tails.
So, there I was with my broke ass. I screamed every time the car went over railroad tracks. Of course, I could barely get in and out of the car as it was. I’ll spare you the narration on the potty trips.
And then I had to take my broke ass to work...
It was plenty bad when I had to sit on my donut in the privacy of my office and stifle my whimpers caused by the pain of standing up and sitting down, but having to go to the courthouse was just a whole new level of hell. I got to hobble around, carrying my donut for all to see and let me assure you that folks at the courthouse aren’t the kind of folks that let you live things down. As an additional humiliation, an attorney is required to stand up every time he or she addresses the Court—an objection that normally would have taken thirty seconds took about five minutes with the majority of that being up and down “travel time.” Dignity, where art thou?
Well, things in the posterior area finally started to improve and I eventually got to the point where I could drive over speed bumps without crying. Of course, things would get sore “Down Yonder” on cold and rainy days or after long car or plane trips, but it was manageable. No, it wasn’t until this past Easter that I seriously angered my buns.
Me, Scott and the Baby Belles stayed with my parents and my brother at a house on Bald Head Island for the holiday. The house was one of those typical inverted styles that folks like to do these days with the living area and the master bedroom on top for the better views. The other bedrooms were located downstairs. The entire house was floored with lovely wood that might possibly have been pine, but the only thing I can tell you for certain is that it was slick as pig shit.
I wear rubber soled flip-flops even when I’m at my own house because I am a spazz and tripping or slipping is always a possibility on the table. Because of the kids, we had the master bedroom upstairs. As the result of our little possums insisting on sleeping with Mama, Scott decided for a quieter, more peaceful rest in one of the bedrooms downstairs.
Naturally, Baby Belle 2 woke up in the middle of the night deciding that she wanted her father instead of her mother. I was barely functional, so I picked her up and forgot to put my shoes on. At the very first step, my feet slipped right out from under me and I landed on my butt. My priority was making sure Baby Belle 2 didn’t hit anything and I did just that as I proceeded to bump down seventeen stairs on my behind.
Thank the good sweet Lord and all that is holy that Baby Belle 2 was unharmed--although deeply pissed off, but things haven’t been right since on the back 40.
My tailbone might or might not be broken, but I refuse to fork out a co-pay only to be told there’s nothing anyone can do. I suppose I can go to the Toys R’ Us and buy one of those little toddler pool rings...maybe even a Spongebob Squarepants or Disney Princesses or something nifty like that.
O Dignity, thou art lost forevermore...