I’m torn. I want to wear my glasses because I like to see, but I know from nearly every movie I’ve seen that I won’t find love until I take them off.
Here is where I would tell you all about the awkwardness of having a massage. Pleasure noises (or lack there of) and all. But it’s been rescheduled. I know you can’t wait to hear whether or not I showed up in every piece of clothing I own and made small talk with the girl being paid to touch me, so I’ll keep you posted.
Every time I hear a grown woman say “pee pee” in public, it reaffirms my content at not yet being a mother.
“Hand signals? What hand signals?!” – girl about to crash on her bike
I recently started riding a bicycle again, after taking about 16 years off between the ages of 12 and 28. My renewed interest was spurred by the deal I got at a summer yard sale last year – $20 for a used bike. Not bad condition either.
I like not having to search and pay for a parking spot. I also like not having to use any fuel besides the strength in my legs.
Riding on a bike through mid-day traffic takes bravery, as I recently discovered when I set out toward my favorite coffee spot one Monday morning. You’re essentially sitting on a tiny piece of metal with a seat and wheels on roads with cars, semi tractor trailers, Mack trucks and buses. It’s kind of like being a house cat in a land of lions and tigers. One wrong move and the orange tabby is pitted against the cheetah. And did I mention the cheetah has claws?
And what do you have for protection as you go into battle? A piece of plastic and foam strapped to your head. To guard your brains in the event of an unfortunate collision with a pickup truck. (And bike helmets mess up your hair and look flattering on absolutely no one. See previous post on helmet attractiveness and saving lives).
Arms, legs and torso – you’re on your own; try not to get run over. I have, so far, escaped collisions and injuries.
Here is where I would offer advice to new bicyclists, if I were a bike expert, or if I had more experience. But I’m not and I don’t. I’m open to hearing your advice, though.
Let’s all try to stay upright and avoid buses.
Think of all the lives that could be saved if adult bicycle helmets were more attractive.
“Broccoli mama like a wagon wheel, broccoli mama any way you feel” – if Old Crow Medicine Show did a healthy-eating themed kids’ album.
One week from now I’ve scheduled something I’ve never done before: a massage.
It was a birthday gift from a friend more worldly than I. “It will change your life,” he promised.
And while I’m looking forward to it, I’m also a little nervous about it. I like having my back and shoulders rubbed, but generally by people I know and like. So the thought of paying someone to touch me makes me uneasy.
My friend must have must have sensed my hesitancy in March, three months after my birthday, when I was yet un-massaged.
“It’s been a whole season, girl!” he said.
And I promised him I would schedule it. But I still managed to put it off another three months. Now, in June, he gave an ultimatum: schedule it my June 15 or he’d re-gift it to a friend of ours.
“I should have gauged your massage-phobia before I gave it to you,” he said.
This blog post is part of my dealing with my massage-phobia. I have lots of unanswered questions, which is really all fear is, isn’t it. The unknown.
What kind of small talk do you make with someone who’s being paid to touch you? I have awkward conversations with my hairdresser, with waiters, with just about everyone, so I’m expecting this to be no different.
Are pleasure noises OK? Talk about awkward.
Will I have to be undressed? Worldly friend told me I can have on as much clothing as I want. I picture myself waiting for the masseuse, alone in a room with candles and soft music .(That’s the way it always is on television). Only instead of being naked under a sheet, I’m putting on more clothes than what I came in with. That’s OK, right?