Your Butt Loves Me.

 Updated!: Instead of Booger-in-your-Nose protocols, maybe I'll respond to my Butt-Dials by doing what THIS chick did.


Your Butt Loves Me.

Seriously, it does. Why else would it call me? All the time. All hours of the day.

When bestowing the name Paddy on their son, my parents surely had some idea of the challenges it would provide throughout my life. And while I like to think I've lived up to those challenges, there are times that I raise my mental eyebrow, doubting that they foresaw all that I'd face:

Grade school: A Boy Named Sue…er, Paddy. Yeah, I got into a few scrapes in my youth. Whether this was due to the perceived feminine qualities of the name, or due to the heritage the name implies (see below), I'll never know. Notably, most fights were with friends, or those who would become my friends. I'm sure that once, way back in history, fighting with friends (or friends-to-be) had something to do with proving your manliness in order to be accepted into a clique. By the time I was growing up, though, I suspect the thought process was more along the lines of "who cares if he's tough? Does he play Nintendo? Cool. We can hang out with him."

Junior High: Missed Opportunities. My first day at a new school, the administration got confused by my name and placed me on the girls' gym roster. While social death at the time and no small source of embarrassment, if I'd had half my wits about me, I would have embraced the opportunity for school-sanctioned co-ed showering. Inevitably, when in philosophical discussions about what I'd go back in time and change if I could, this  is near the top of the list. When authority puts you in the company of a gaggle of girls, you'd best carpe that diem for all it's worth.

College and Beyond: Living up to Stereotypes. With a name that represents one of the two most common Irish slurs, you'd best be able to back it up. I believe it comes as a disappointment to all who know me that I don't drink or fight or drink and fight more often. All apologies. (Although for what it's worth, the preferred drink IS whisky.)

Now that you've been subjected to a bit of my nominal history, let's talk about what your Butt has to do with it.

Look at your phone. Now back to me. Back to your phone. And back to me. Sadly, I'm not your phone. But that #7 on your phone represents me. In that mystical language of alpha-numeric phone speak, I am #7. And when your phone gets jostled into address book mode, if you sit down and your Butt hits that cornerstone number, the letter P is the first number that comes up. And the odds are high that if you have me in your address book, I'm the first name that comes up. I show up before the Pauls. Before the Paiges. Even before the Pats. And your Butt frequently calls me. 

(If you have friends in your phone named Pablo or Paco, then relax. I'm not talking to you. But THEY may want to have a word with your Butt.

Not that I don't like your Butt. But I might not know your Butt. Of all the friends I have, I only know a few of their Butts. And even then, it's likely only a casual acquaintance. Maybe I met them at a party, when you were flirting with that cute person on the patio. Maybe you dove into the pool, and your Butt poked it's face out to say "hi!" Maybe you dropped your keys. Or maybe a bunch of our Butts met when we were mooning that jerk who lived next to the Little League field and wouldn't let us go onto his property to retrieve foul balls and would pull out a shotgun if we tried to sneak over the fence to get them. Classy move, there, pal: pulling a shotgun on Little League kids. But hey, at least it gave our Butts an opportunity to meet one another.

Look, I know that everyone has been victim to the Butt-Dial. Heck, MY Butt has even made a call now and then without my knowledge. But I can't help but think that I'm a bit more of a Butt-Dial recipient than most. And in the interest of trying to be a better person, I'm gonna start calling y'all on it. It's the modern-communication version of having food stuck in your teeth. Or having a booger hanging out of your nose. Sure, it sucks. But it sucks so much worse when people see it and DON'T SAY ANYTHING. If Ihave a big piece of broccoli stuck in my teeth and you don't tell me, then you've just enabled the rest of the world to mock my oral hygiene. That's just damned rude of you. Better that you tell me, and we have a brief awkward moment, but the problem gets rectified. And then I don't look like a total boob when I flirt with the girl at the auto service center to try and get a free car wash with my oil change. That's a courtesy I demand of you. And you should demand the same courtesy of me. 

So next time your Butt calls me in the middle of the night when you drunkenly stagger into a cab, next time I get a three minute voicemail from the inside of your pants, I'll let you know. You'll get a text. Maybe a phone call at 7 in the morning. Maybe I'll steal your phone and change the address card to my last name, so that I won't be the victim when your posterior punches up the number 7. Either way, you'll be made aware of the situation, and you'll be able to take appropriate action with your Butt to prevent it from using up your minutes. 

And I'll be able to cease wondering why the hell you keep calling me.