I hate my butt.

Make sure we are clear about the subject here. I have a relatively fat-free, strong, round, mammalian mesomorph gluteus. Like most ape-men, my fat cells avoid the limbs and clambor toward the temporal climate of the torso. So, as much extra baggage as I have, I could only coloquially be considered a “fat-ass.”

No, my loathing of my posterior region is not aesthetic in nature. While I am partial to the baggier style of clothing, even through my sagging jeans one can proclaim the ferrous alloy aspect of my “buns.”

“Well, what then?” you may well ask. “If you’re so enamored with the pleasantly curved cheeks of your manly yet pouty rump — as are we all, you beautiful bastard — then why the whinging?”

I will elucidate, never you fear. In truth, while my shapely buttocks are seemingly unaffected by gravity, forever perched on that pinnacle of pert and perky perfection, they do shelter a hidden secret. Though no one but me could ever know this*, they are in fact… flawed. And this imperfection, while concealed from the adoring public, conspires to remind me of basic entropic principles. Even this monument to the masculine ideal is slowly crumbling.

* Unless, of course, if I were to extoll the horrible truth. On a public website, for example.

What follows could be described as Too Much Information, by almost everyone. You have been warned.

In one sentence, I’m nearly 30 and I need to pay a highly educated person to… do a bit of spelunking… to tell me why sometimes the act of sitting is problematic.

If nothing else, this emasculating experience is proof that I am an adult. Adulthood is simply a synonym for “life with pain.” As a man whose machismo can sometimes be seen from space, it can be difficult for me to admit any weakness. I am Spartacus! But there are some things for which a man should be willing to humble himself.

Jon Stewart, in his stand-up days, had a beautiful bit about “possibly housing a flaming ferret in [his] ass.” To paraphrase:

I was nervous, naturally, and a little humiliated to go in. Then the doctor had to make it worse by yelling, in a very accusatory voice, “I don’t see anything.” As though I were going to turn around and say “Gotcha! Made you look, dirty crook! Ha ha! It worked again!”

Then again, I don’t know what else I expected him to say. I suppose I wasn’t expecting him to say, in a voice hushed with awe, “Magnificent… Nurse, get my sketch pad. You’re going on my refrigerator, sir.”

And Ricky Gervais, Stephen Merchant and Karl Pilkington released this lovely ode to the doctor’s visit.

So, there you have it. At worst, I have said slightly too much and entered into the company of old biddies who discuss the ailments of every family member in great detail. At best, I am in the company of the host of the Daily Show and the creators of The Office.