Staphanie

About two months ago, a strange rash appeared on my lower right hip/butt cheek. I know, you read “rash” and “butt” in the same sentence and you think STD… flesh-eating bacteria… contagious... disgusting. Maybe in a different order. But let me assure you, it’s none of these things. It’s too high up on the cheek to be sex or toilet related. Trust me on this one. It’s just a small patch of skin that’s abnormally red, bumpy, and mind-numbingly itchy.

But there is a point to this post, aside from revolting anyone that was ever considering having sex with me.

Initially I reacted to the rash like I do every ailment: ignored it and hoped it went away. But after a month, I started to get nervous. I showed it to my roommate, Molly who convinced me that it was probably a Staph infection and I’d most likely be dead within a week if I didn’t seek immediate medical attention.

I haven’t been to a regular doctor in years, if not decades, so I got a recommendation from my friend, Stephanie. That’s when I decided to name my presumably fatal Staph infection: “Staphanie.”

I’ve always hated the word “rash;” it just sounds dirty. But “Staphanie,” that’s pretty. “Staphanie’s looking awfully red today.” “I can’t stop scratching Staphanie.” “Staphanie seems to be spreading.” Pretty.

So anyway, a few days before I took Staphanie to the doctor, it miraculously cleared up. Just vanished. God bless modern medicine – you just make an appointment and you’re cured. But I went to the appointment anyway, where the doc told me that it was not a Staph infection, that it was more likely something akin to Athletes’ Foot.

I went and got the cream he prescribed just in case, but it didn’t make any sense – how could I get Athletes’ Foot on my hip/butt cheek. Again, too high to touch the toilet seat. Too low to show over the top of my jeans. Something was not right.

That brings me up to my trip to New York, on which Staphanie reappeared and with a vengeance. Red, angry and screaming. And she brought her friend - a similarly shaped and colored patch on the exact spot off the opposite cheek. Symmetrical butt cheek rashes. I was so confused. That was, until this morning.

I watched TV for the duration of my early morning flight home, including a number of episodes of CSI. They’re so clever, those scripted detectives, finding clues in every little clip or fingernail or glob of vomit. If they could figure out who murdered the waitress, I could figure out who Staphanie was and why she was on my ass.

Let’s see… Staphanie was gone for a week. Incidentally it was the same week that I dropped my favorite pair of jeans to be patched at the cleaners. She returned in New York, the trip on which I only brought that one pair of jeans that had just been patched. But I’ve owned those jeans for a year, how could I suddenly have a reaction to them? Wait a minute, I thought back to my Christmas party where I borrowed Molly’s necklace. The cheap metal had cause the skin under the pendant to get red and itchy. That used to happen to my earlobes as well until I started buying nothing but real gold or Stirling silver.

That was it!

I went to the airplane bathroom to examine the inside of my jeans. Sure enough, the metal of the divets that held the side pockets looked worn. Whatever nicer metal that had been protecting my skin had clearly worn off.

That’s who Staphanie was. Not a flesh-eating virus, not Athletes’ Foot of the Butt and not a deadly Staph infection. Just an allergic reaction to my Joe’s jeans. Once again, damn those designer Jeans. But they fit so well.

I'm just like CSI. Only rashier.