Chicken butt

When my children were small, I stayed at home with them. When they were both in elementary school, I went to graduate school, after which I got a job. So for a decade of my post-partum adult life I was very active. Chasing babies, chasing toddlers, chasing preschoolers. Then I chased paper in the form of assignments, presentations, research, copies of books I could not buy and had to borrow, plus a full-time job squeezed in throughout the day and, of course, constant chasing after growing kids. Then I graduated and got a full-time job.

From 1999 onwards, my graduate degree has entitled me to a life on my butt. Because I am so smart and did such a good job chasing paper, I get to sit while I work. The result of my first year was a 100% increase in income, out of sight cholesterol, and hemorrhoids.

“Ah, there it is, see?” The proctologist declared brightly to his resident, revealing my bulging, rectal vein with the use of a very well lubricated scope. “Must be painful.”

“How did this happen?” I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice. “How can I avoid the hemorrhoids?”

“Do you strain on the toilet?” he asked peering at me knowingly over his crisp bow tie.

“Never.” This is true. I have no intention of being found dead on the bathroom floor from stroke, my face purple and my pants down. There are limits.

“Then you’ve gotten them from sitting all day. You can get them from sitting too long or standing too long in one place.” He clearly loved his job.

“How about walking too long?” My sarcasm made the resident blink. I seemed such a docile lady.

“Nope,” the good doctor grinned. “Just stand up every 15 minutes. It’ll help. Take short breaks.” He said this as if he was delivering good news.

Well, that won’t be noticed at work. Not at all. In a room full of silently programming dudes, my repeated 15 minute watch alarms followed by standing for no apparent reason will go unnoticed. Perhaps I could disguise it with some sort of prayer-like motion? Though maybe I should pass on the butt-to-the-sky pose . . . .

A therapist once told me that I was very fortunate to have strong psychosomatic responses to stressful events, like the time I broke out in full body hives when Mr. Wrong proposed. Dude was so bad for me he gave me a rash. Thank God.

So what does it mean exactly when my job makes my ass hurt?