Last night, I waited outside a change room for my daughter to dry her eardrums and shake all of her sillies out after swimming lessons. I sat on a wooden bench and stared blankly at the wall.

I thought about our upcoming weekend, how hot I was watching the lesson, how annoying it was to see child after child after damp-haired child emerge from the change room and mine was nowhere to be seen yet I could hear her high-pitched laugh, practicing handshakes and sing-alongs with her homies. That’s right, homies.

One of the Dad’s approached the wooden bench, smiled in my direction and sat down at the other end.

I tried to smile back but it wasn’t so much as a smile as it was my frozen face wincing in pain as I considered squealing, “Holy Mother Of Pearl!” while the centre slats of the bench shifted just enough to pinch any loose butt-skin I was wearing and basically sever it clean off.

If this were a fable, I might say something like, “The moral of this story is, if you’re waiting for a child to hurry up and get dressed, watch you don’t lose your cheeks while riding the pine.”

But it’s not a fable, it’s my butt and a bench shaped bruise really smarts.

photo is a likeness