I went to the beach only a couple times this summer. During my most recent day out on the sand, there was no umbrella for me to cower under, so to protect my pasty skin from harmful UV rays, I slathered on extra sunscreen, kept my shirt on, and used my towel as a blanket across my legs. My friend Edgar told me I looked like Barbara Hershey at the end of Beaches.
I sat by pools a time or two over the course of the season as well. One of those pools was in Newport, Rhode Island. I took a weekend trip there with my husband, Frank, and my mother, who was visiting for my birthday.
When we checked into our hotel in Newport, we realized the place had a pool, but we hadn’t packed anything appropriate to wear while taking a dip. Fortunately, there was a T.J. Maxx nearby, so Frank and I made a dash for emergency swimwear.
Design features of the suit I selected include a flamingos-and-palm-trees print and, on the back pocket, a metal rivet with jagged edges that’ll poke you unless you sit down just right. I assume this piece is a manufacturing anomaly.
Speaking of things poking me in the butt, that birthday I mentioned a moment ago was my 45th, putting me in the age group due for a first colonoscopy. Because my hypochondria prevents me from delaying any sort of medical exam, I underwent the procedure a mere 3 weeks after crossing into the second half of my 40s.
Having endured the hourslong Poopapalooza caused by the liquid laxative they make you drink before heading to the clinic, I naturally felt dehydrated and had been drinking a fair amount of water and seltzer on the day of my procedure. I neglected to note, however, that I was supposed to avoid drinking anything at least 2 hours before the colonoscopy because the anesthesia could somehow lead to fluid ending up in my lungs.
Consequently, I showed up to the clinic with a bellyful of sparkling water. When I revealed this info, I learned that I would either need to reschedule the colonoscopy—necessitating a Poopapalooza: Part Deuce—or have the procedure done without sedation.
I opted for the latter course of action, for, after all, what kind of gay guy would I be if I weren’t brave about butt stuff? (Straight men, meanwhile, blanch with fear at the mere mention of a suppository, and yet we’re the sissies?)
Having a colonoscopy while you’re stone-cold sober feels like having a garden hose inserted in your backside, slowly pushed up to your breastbone, and then wiggled around for a while. I found the sensation weird and uncomfortable but not what I would call painful.
Still, the next time I have a colonoscopy I hope the anesthesiologist gives me something. At least some poppers.
If you’re hoping to learn something from my experiences this summer, I suppose my advice boils down to the trusty Scouts motto, Be prepared. To elaborate:
• Always have sunscreen on hand.
• Before a trip, check ahead to see if your hotel has a pool so that you won’t have to purchase shoddily made emergency swimwear.
• Get a colonoscopy when you turn 45.
• Carefully read the colonoscopy-prep instructions so that you don’t wind up wide awake in some kind of fetish scene with your Romanian gastroenterologist rooting around in your insides while she chatters on about her recent vacation in Germany.
I honestly can’t think of anything else you need to know in order to have a happy and successful life.
Indirect Objects 