Donuts down under

A cheeky little travel tale

I first shared this piece in 2022, shortly after my previous trip to Australia, when I dealt with a particularly unglamorous health hiccup. Since I’m Down Under again, with body parts that so far are on their best behavior, it felt like the right moment to bring this one back into the daylight.

If you’d prefer to listen to today’s essay, you’ll find an audio version here. ⬇️

Let’s begin with a thought exercise. Spend a minute considering your life’s most memorable personal experiences. Notice the word memorable: These aren’t necessarily good or bad reflections, just those that are unforgettable. Click below. Close your eyes if it feels like the right thing to do. One minute. Ready? Go!

Okay. How’re you doing? You good?

For me, that was like a b-movie version of life flashing before my eyes. Births and deaths, triumphs and failures, confrontations, contemplations all writhing around in a mosh pit together. Gratefully, my mental reel was mostly filled with holiday table stories, the ones we tell again and again that never get old. But, there was also a selection of embarrassing moments, a few of which have only seen the light of day among the closest of friends or family.

For most of us, the more taboo the topic, the greater the likelihood of secrecy. Compromising situations, sexual fantasies and bodily functions all get the stink-eye in so-called polite conversation. We don’t talk about getting caught red-handed. Some of us have never told our partners about our wildest dreams, let alone experienced them. Incontinence is hush-hush. One reason we love a good comedian is because they have a knack for bringing our squirmiest subjects into the open, saying what we’ve been thinking but were too afraid to share.

Which brings me to a story from our Australia trip—memorable for all the wrong reasons. Though our days there were ideal in most ways, I still found myself navigating a terribly uncomfortable situation.

It started innocently enough. A day after we arrived, I noticed that an innocuous nodule on my backside, which had lived there for years without issue, was a little tender. I chalked it up to the consequence of being sat on for an absurd number of consecutive hours while we were in transit. I tried to ignore it, like I’d always done. The next day, I took a long bath, hoping the hot water would mobilize some anti-inflammatory mojo.

By day three, I recruited a travel neck pillow into service, a kind of rescue donut for my compromised caboose. The pain took me back to the days just after the birth of my first child, when it felt like everything down there had been manhandled. (In fact, it had been, but that’s a different story.)

Why me? I thought. Why now?!

The lump on my derrière seemed to say, ‘Hold my beer.’

Mind you, if a cyst like this had gone rogue anywhere else on my body, it wouldn’t have been nearly as humiliating. An amorphous blob on an arm is distressing, but I’d readily roll up my sleeve in full disclosure, and maybe scoop up some sympathy in the process. A whopper of a zit on a forehead is awkward but hardly a show stopper. But a butt dilemma? Zip it!  Because, no matter how genial you are, you know idle chatter is going to cease the minute you bring up your calamitous nether regions.

Imagine it.

“Such a bummer!” the woman remarked, her hand hovering above the plum-sized lump on her keister. “Now, tell me more about this lovely lasagna.”

We keep that stuff under wraps for a reason.

By day five, my morale plummeting as my misery climbed, I finally cried uncle and made an appointment with Dr. Victor Wei, who I believe was actually young enough to be my son. He was so nice—no audible gasp, no questions about next of kin when he saw my sky-high blood pressure, a product of my nerves. He simply offered a few moments of reassuring chit-chat before trying again.

In no time, he moved along to asking me to describe my problem. Good thing he waited until after the small talk to get to the nitty gritty. Before I knew it, he was ready to have a look.

God, help me, here we go.

Dr. Wei and I glanced at each other. I forced a smile; he returned it. There was another slight pause. Then, suddenly, I got it. He wasn’t leaving the room. My denuding was not going to warrant a private moment. He would not be giving me a chance to arrange and rearrange my clothes on the chair, like I do every time I go to the doctor to convey confident nonchalance. There was no paper gown, lap cloth, or other disposable couture to be seen. I could feel my face flushing as I wrestled with how to proceed. I sought clarification.

“So, uh, how do you want me to do this?”

Asking felt uncomfortable, but I had to know.

For his part, Dr. Wei was appropriately professional. He gave me the choice of standing on the floor or lying on the table. Even though it’s advisable to get your head below your heart when you’re on the verge of passing out, somehow I felt that facing away from him in a horizontal position would give me a better grip on my dignity than seeing him upside down, from between my knees.

My fears had multiplied exponentially with the assumption that the next phase would involve a sharp blade on tender skin. But, I figured that would at least eliminate the ever-increasing pressure. Alas, no.

There were explanations and justifications for letting things resolve on their own in that regard, and just like that I was back up, dressed, and half-listening as I watched him scritch off a prescription for an antibiotic.

It took another 26 hours and five minutes—but who’s counting?—before nature took her course and the situation began to improve. My family, bless them, had been suitably sympathetic to my condition, but as soon as they saw my spirits lifting, they started cracking jokes about going viral with Dr. Pimple Popper.

I see no fame in my future from this one, but in the perpetual fight against pessimism, I have considered what lessons of lasting value might be drawn from this incident. Here are my best three:

1. Don’t let their mild-mannered appearance fool you. Neck pillows are superheroes.

2. There is no reality without humility.

3. Mixed into every picture-perfect vacation is at least one royal pain in the ass.

Four weeks after my visit with Dr. Victor (I figure we can be on a first name basis now), I managed to get back in the saddle, literally, at a spin class. I’m told that to avoid all risk of something like this happening again, I need to have a follow-up procedure. I promise not to write about that. One bum story is enough. But hey—you can thank me later for giving you something to talk about at your next cocktail party.

~Elizabeth

My family, bless them, down under in 2022.

G’day friends, and thanks for spending a little time here.

If today’s missive gave you a laugh, or reminded you that we all carry our own brand of awkward, I’d love to hear from you. What’s your favorite humble-pie story? Ever had a vacation go sideways in a way you can finally laugh about?

Won’t you join me in the comments? Like 💚 or restack ♻️ the piece? Or pass it along to someone who could use a reminder that we’re all human—one weird story at a time?

Thanks again for being here. If you want to be sure to catch Chicken Scratch every week, please consider a free or paid subscription.