I have AAS, I’ve said it, it’s true. I first learned of this terminal and chronic condition many years ago from Theresa. I know I’m not the first, nor will I be the last, victim of this silent annoyance.
My name is Jen. I have Arctic Ass Syndrome.
My God, Jen! How terrible! And yet I am intrigued. What exactly is AAS? How do I know if I or a loved one suffer from this debilitating syndrome?
Allow me to provide you with a simple self-diagnostic quiz.
If you have burned out your car’s seat heater by leaving it on HIGH from October to May, you very likely have AAS. If you do not have such a heater in your car and weep for the very thought, you also very likely have AAS and need to get yourself one of these:
If your spouse, significant other, or flavor of the day spoons up behind you in bed and instead of sweet nothings you hear, “Sweet Mother of All That’s Holy! Is that your ass?” followed by catapulting out of bed for more lower body layers and a protective wall of blankets, you may have AAS.
If, during a heat wave when people are dropping left and right, your back sweat delicate moisture drips down and freezes solid, you probably have AAS.
If you are slapped on the ass and the perpetrator’s hand ices over, you may very likely have AAS…and should probably search out a young priest and an old priest.
And finally, if at any point during the year you could conceivably keep a crate of freshly caught fish fresh simply by sitting on them, you indeed have AAS.
It’s a sad condition, one not understood except by those who are fellow sufferers. Members of this unenviable society avoid sexy thong underwear (miserable coverage, not terribly conducive to warmth), eschew hot baths because although steeping in hot water is wonderful the ass contact with the cold tub is not, and want nothing more than to no longer feel like they’re hauling a side of beef around in the trunk.
There is no cure. There is no (legal) treatment. Researchers are perplexed as to the cause, though I have my theories. I suspect that the wide load I’m hauling around plus the years of sitting on cold bleachers through high school and college marching/pep bands combined with freaky genetics and bad ’80s movies formed the perfect storm resulting in AAS.
So come out of the woodwork, my fellow sufferers. Join me in slapping ass on the fireplace glass for a few minutes of respite, let us gather as we stick heating pads down the back of our jeans, and let us invent new excuses to avoid going sledding with our children. Join me and stand tall, rising above those frozen cheeks, to proclaim with no shame,
“I have AAS.”