When I was a kid, I always remember having stomach pains. When you’re little, and have a lot of pain, and you don’t know why it’s happening, you do weird shit. I used to remember playing dead, keeled over in abdominal pain, hiding under the dinner table. I also remember playing street hockey with kids, having the pain, and then just randomly acting like I got slashed, probably scaring the shit out of other 7 year olds.

The pain was always on my right side, and it was a shooting pain. For a while, I’m sure my parents thought I was just dramatic. And I guess they wouldn’t be totally wrong. I would go on to have minor roles in both Damn Yankees AND West Side Story. This much, true Tub fans know. Back then however, I wasn’t usually faking.

Probably after a prolonged stint under the dinner table, I finally was taken to the doctors. X-rays of some sort revealed the issue. Apparently something was going on in the ol’ digestive tract. All the crap (literally) in my body was getting stuffed to the side and causing a shitty traffic jam. All quite terrible for sure. I had to take laxatives and what not, but apparently that wasn’t enough.

This I know because of a horrific memory that isn’t entirely repressed. When I was 7 or 8, I remember being at the doctors and a procedural sneak attack. UNBEKNOWNST to me, I was about to get a tube stuck up my butt. I don’t blame my mother for that time. I do blame her for not taking us to Disney but I can’t imagine going to the doctor’s office willingly knowing a tube would be stuck up my ass. And so it happened. The memory is blurry but I recall a tube going up my butt and what I can only deduce—shit being syphoned out my ass.

Perhaps this is too much information for a hot tub themed blog but you always should know about who you soak with.

Let’s flash forward about 23 years.

For the past two weeks, I’ve had the SAME stomach pain that I recall having as a kid. At first, I tried to attribute it to some ab exercises at Planet Fitness—America’s favorite place to butt-watch. But in a horrible twist of irony, the butt-watch was back on me. Maybe the up-the-butt-procedure has worn off, I thought as I grimaced through my work day! After suppressing the idea for some time, I finally came clean to my mother. I was curious about my childhood diagnosis and wanted to know what I could do to treat it as an adult.

Mum. Remember when I used to have those pains as a kid on my right side? I’m having them again. Same place. What was the  diagnosis?

You were constipated.

Ok. But what was the diagnosis?

Nothing. You just were real backed up.

WHAT

THE

FUCK.

So you’re telling me that I had a tube stuck up my 7-year-old butt because I was constipated? DO WE THINK THAT MAY BE A LITTLE EXTREME?  I’m bracing myself for some sort of diagnosis that has at least 12 letters and ends with -SIS.

FECALSCALIOSIS SOUNDS A LITTLE MORE LEGITIMATE, MOM.

Just baffled right now. Severe constipation. I can tell you this, everyone. If I’M EVER on The Voice, and Carson asks me the “how has your life sucked” question, I’m not going to EVEN MENTION the deaf in one ear business. BUT HAVING A TUBE UP MY BUTT WILL MAKE THE FINAL CUT and millions of Americans will root for me. If I had a deeper voice, I may even be deemed the Baritone with the Butt Issues.

Just too drastic for my liking! Imagine similar scenarios handled by my mother:

“Mom, the nail off my big toe fell off!”

“Ok hunny. (Drives to hosptial)”

[private conversation]

“Doc, I think we need to amputate. Talk to him about hockey while you do it. He loves hockey.”

So here I am now, 30 years old, wondering if I’m going to make it til April for my 31st. A late onset case of constipation and I’m drinking mineral oil like I used to drink vodka. Mineral oil abuse. And to make matters worse, I want to go to the gym. Pretttyyyyy sure not farting on the treadmill is hard enough already. A bottle of laxatives on the leg press sounds like I might get my membership revoked. I’ll keep you posted.