I’m a housewife. I spend my days puttering around the apartment, running little errands, doing little chores; keeping life neat, tidy, and orderly. I’m very shy. In my spare time, I write, paint, draw, and sculpt. I create. I love to create. But it is my secret joy, and I share it with no one. Sometimes my husband gets to see, but otherwise, it stays hidden. It’s mine.
And so, several days ago, I was vacuuming the front room, keeping life neat and tidy. The television is on in the background. When I finish with the vacuuming, I hear a woman’s voice: “Now, I’m going to have my anus bleached.” I pause, still holding the now-silent vacuum handle in one hand. I run one hand through my tied back, mussed hair, nod almost imperceptively, blink a couple of times, and glance at the television. Yes, I heard her correctly. There is a pretty lady laying down on a table, pulling her panties down, and though it is blurred, the intentions of the other woman standing over her with a little paintbrush are quite clear indeed. “Huh,” I say aloud, thoughtfully. “Huh.”
I wrap the cord neatly around the hooks on the vacuum, and store it carefully back in the closet. I give the television another dubious glance. “Huh,” I say again. I enter the bathroom and run the water for my afternoon bath.
Oh, it crossed my mind, I won’t lie. As I stripped to get into the tub, I glanced briefly over my shoulder at myself in the mirror. However, I only got a gander at my round, rolling cheeks, and had no overwhelming desire to part them and take a peek. I let it be. As I stepped into the warm water, I noticed that I’d forgotten to put the bathmat down. You know, that hideous plastic mat with the suctions cups on one side that prevent you from slipping in the shower? Well, my husband hates the thing, and won’t leave it on the floor of the tub. His calloused feet must be like natural cleats for him, I suppose. Since I was just going to be soaking in the tub, I left the mat where it was. Not that big a deal, I thought.
As I am relaxing, I keep hearing that one line in my head: “I’m going to have my anus bleached.” Wow. Maybe she was a porn actress? Maybe she was a nude model? I tried to imagine a circumstance in which I would require my anus to be it’s shiniest. I giggled at the thought. It reminded me of a Pit thread, here on the Dope, in which the term “shiny asshole” was used. I giggled more. Then I frowned, deep in thought. I never gave any thought to that part of my body. I thought a bung was a bung, right? Is this just another new thing to make me feel inadequate? Were my parts now not shiny enough, as well as not smooth enough, tight enough, perky enough, pretty enough? Ah, but I was never one to complain much about that kind of thing. If I don’t like certain parts of myself, well, I worked hard to fix them, or accept the fact that if I’m feeling fat, it’s probably because of the doughnuts. I nod to myself, accepting who I am, and wondering if there’s anything I should think about fixing up. I wonder to myself, as I stand up in the tub, reaching for a towel. I wonder if I could use a lady standing over me with a chilly little paintbrush. I grab the towel and take one step out of the tub. I wonder if…
And WHAM! I’m on the floor, in a daze. I’d slipped stepping out of the tub! Lifting myself from the floor a couple of inches, I realise I’m okay. However, I’m kind of a wuss, and once I realise I’m safe… I faint.
…
I don’t know how much time has passed when I come to, but my youngest cat has entered the bathroom and is rubbing her face against my hair. I wince and sit up. I’m fine. A little shaken, but fine. I’m dry, too. I’m chilly. I get dressed quickly, and go sit on my bed. I glance back into the open door of the bathroom, and see the place where I had fallen. I shuddered. Just a couple of inches, and I could have whacked my head on the corner cabinet. Hard. I could have broken my head. I could have died.
With that thought, I am swept into thoughts of an alternate reality, where instead of simply passing out, I had died. How awful for my dear family; my darling husband. There would be much mourning. Eventually, all of my poems and artwork would be found. Because of my death, they would be suddenly very valuable. I could take some comfort in the fact that at least my family would profit. The headlines would say, “Cloistered Housewife Was A Closeted Artist”, and “Beautiful Works From a Dead Woman’s Heart”, and craptastic things like that. Things that really tug at your heartstrings. All that junk I’ve been hiding, finally brought into the light, and the world finds it brilliant. My family believes that now, finally, I can rest in peace.
And I will sit up on my cloud, or whatever it is I’m supposed to do after death, looking down rather grumpily upon all of this. I mean, I’d be happy for my family. I’d be a little miffed at how I was being represented in the media, but such is life. Or death, in this case. And then there’s the secret.* The * secret that only me and the Big Guy know. Oh, and his loud-mouthed son.
As I sit there, with my arms crossed, kicking at the air, Jesus would come and sit down beside me. He’d put a companionable arm around my shoulder and grin.
“Hey, how are you this fine day, Shiny?” he’d ask. I’d jab him in the stomach.
“Go to hell, J.C.,” I’d grumble. “That’s not even funny anymore.” And he would chuckle, stand up and wander off to find his buddy Moses or something. They’re always hanging out.
The damn secret. Everyone down below thinks I’m some kind of artist, deep and thoughtful. They probably think my final thoughts were something poetic and poignant. But me and J.C., we know better. We know better. And I’ll grumble to myself, arms crossed, looking down on everyone:
“You think I’m so great. The last thought that went through my mind before I died was I WONDER IF MY ASSHOLE IS SHINY ENOUGH?!”
I have got to prioritise.
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