When I was a kid, I was just like the Coppertone Girl.
Only red. Very red. My Irish heritage produced day-glow skin that never tans. As a kid, it turned fire-engine red in record time. Regardless, I stayed out all day at the beach, in my bathing suit. Burning.
Like the Coppertone girl, there was one part of my body that did not burn, and I’ve always been glad. Well, until I read this article:
I am sad to say, that I, too, suffer from Butt Burn.
I came about it innocently enough. When we returned from living in Switzerland, we bought a car that had heated seats. I was delighted, since I am always cold. I pushed the button, and happiness reigned. For ten years, I’ve had a toasty tush. I would never think of buying a car without this luxury feature. A seat warmer and satellite radio is all I really require in a car. An engine is helpful, but not essential.
My path to Butt Burn, though, was down a slippery slope.
Two years ago, I started having a sore butt, so I applied Vaseline. Often out of those tiny tubes of Vaseline Lip Therapy that led me towards the pathway to lip balm addiction. I prefer the cherry flavored, although it hardly mattered down there.
When Vaseline fell short of my needs, I tried lidocaine ointment to soothe. Lastly, I tried what every mother knows works to soothe sore bums – Butt Paste.
These products have not helped. In fact, they made it worse. Now, I’m not a chemist, but I think I need to Google the temperature at which Butt Paste burns. Because I’m pretty sure I got very close over the weekend. My seat was smokin’.
I shudder to think: what if I had spontaneously combusted?
The whole issue gives new meaning to some of my favorite phrases:
“Liar, liar, pants on fire”
“Cool Your Jets”
No butts were actually burned in the creation of this post. So butt-burn sympathy is not necessary. Flowers are always welcome, however.