Grammy Can Keep Her Hands to Herself

I used to have a regular massage therapist but life happened and now I tend to just blindly book a massage at the last minute and cross my fingers that the massage therapist will be adequate. On one particular session it started off like all others, face down on the table with all the regular stuff happening. I’m not certain when things started to go wrong, but I am pretty sure it took a turn when my therapist started referring to herself in the 3rd person. I would have been perfectly fine if she would have been calling herself any old name like Sally Jo, Wendy, or LuLu. I don’t really have any preferences or care about 3rd person talk mostly. I’m always amused by those who choose to talk this way and would love someday to study these folks in my spare time, but until then I will just think deeply about them from time to time.
During most of my past massages I zone out and sometimes sleep, and I’m pretty sure I was on the verge during this one like most of my others. However, when the therapist reached my back and neck area something changed. It could have been all the knots that are constantly residing in my neck that make it almost impossible to turn my head to locate my blind spot while driving that changed the energy during this massage to something else. Or perhaps it was just too difficult for this particular therapist to resist her once removed maternal instinct to stay to the strict massage therapist script. She explained that my shoulders and neck were a mess of knots and placed a heating pad on the area, which was fine with me. However, she sat there and patted the heating pad kind of like how one would pat the behind of an infant. After a few minutes she excused herself from the room, but not before leaning down to almost whisper in my ear to let me know, “Grammy, would be back to work the knots out.”
Well, this changed everything. With every application of lotion and the mention of Grammy doing this and that I tensed up. I realized that I didn’t want Grammy rubbing anything! And it did not help that she started every sentence out with what Grammy was going to do next when she moved to a different part of my body. Even the sounds of the lotion coming from the bottle sounded perverted somehow and I felt dirty. When the massage was finally over I dressed in shame and feel like I just committed some vile unfavorable act. If I was a religious person I would have run to my nearest confessional. The most perplexing thing about this experience aside from the dirty guilt and the urge to find religion was when it was over, as I was driving away, I felt the overwhelming urge for a freshly made baked good and oddly I felt cheated.

Life is Short, But VD Can Be Everlasting

This weekend is the Thanksgiving of LOVE. Instead of arguing against indulging, I will do the opposite. I urge you all to fill yourselves to the gills. I want your neighbors to smell “sex and candy” from across your yard. I want you to gorge until you can’t move, walk, or think. “Just Do It” as Nike says, and then  do it again. Don’t over think Valentine’s Day, but do think about VD…it’s the responsible thing to do. Life is short. Being alone is just that. Buy those flowers, candies, rings, or chocolates. Walk or run to that other someone who you choose to tolerate, I mean LOVE. Don’t spend one second hating the commercialism that we wade through on every single holiday… not this one. This is about LOVE folks. Spending your life regretting what you should have done is just empty heartbreak. I want you all to gain LOVE weight this weekend, it will look good on you. I want you to treat LOVE like turkey and mashed potatoes and eat like you have never eaten before. I want you to have a LOVE induced coma and hangover at that same time. If you act on these impulse and immediately regret it, it’s fine. You can blame me for inciting this thing called lust, I mean LOVE. This is the only holiday that makes me think about trading in my LOVE of the color grey for red, perhaps a new natural hair color is in order. I will live vicariously through all you out there willing to give LOVE a go this weekend. I, not only, will be sending you all positive LOVE energy, but will also be studying the LOVE horoscopes, as this is mandatory to make this holiday complete. I look forward to be filled in on your adventures. On second thought, no thanks. I have seen the aftermath of Thanksgiving dinner and the clean up can fifty shades of terrifying.

Dear Massage Therapist

Typically, when I meet a new therapist, she or he suggests three levels of pressure: 1. light, 2. medium, and 3. deep. Although we did agree on deep you failed to mention that you were applying a fourth level of pressure, which I have named HOLY SHIT! You probably don’t know that I am often dissatisfied with my posterior, but I only can conclude by the way you attacked it with such aggression that you must have been angry with it too. I haven’t looked, but I just might have finger bruises back there. As you paced around the massage table, I laid there anxiously with my eyes closed waiting for you to pounce and unleash the rage. When you would find a knot or an area of concern, you would dig at it how a blind hungry dog digs for a buried bone. At one point, my body wanted to break out in the cold sweats, but I willed myself from doing so out of fear that you might break out in grunts in some sort of primal song of conquer. To be honest I am afraid to look at the aftermath of your massage rage and I can’t decided if I in fact did just participate in a massage or a beating, and I can’t decide if I want to complain or ask for you again next week. For some reason, I think that your massages might build my character and/or be a way to work off all the bad karma I have accumulated over the years. But Dear Massage Therapist please understand when or if I see you again we will agree upon a safe word.