-- Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s! --
Without further ado, here's my attempt to go TMI Thursday.
I usually go for a massage once a month, for the past two years or so and especially since the not-so-lovely 2008 February car accident. I always book with Larry, the extremely professional, very good karma, school instructor who has more than 25 years of experience (and also leads meditation groups and preaches vegetarianism and yadda yadda, the whole nine yards).
So, as what tends to happen at the hairdresser if you frequent the same one long enough, they start to know bits and pieces about your life. Such is the case here. This man knows I'm currently WL (without lover). He also firmly believes that my gallbladder is rotting, because I consume too much protein. But anyway....
As per usual, he asks how things are going, and I inform him I'm doing great. And without skipping a muscle on my knotted shoulders, he says, in an all-knowing Jewish mother-type way, "No you're not...you're so obviously not."
And I laugh. I'm obviously not? Must be because of the knots. And I don't volunteer further.
So he presses, as much on my thoughts as on my back, "Come on, tell old Lar, what's the deal."
I briefly mention work.
He hmmms and awwws but mostly brushes it off.
He, being a Yankee fan, sadistically dares to mention the Red Sox.
My muscles tense. He laughs.
I stop talking and just try to drift off, focusing on letting the toxins go through breathing, etc.
(At this point, let me assure you, this man is UBER professional. Nothing seedy or inappropriate in any way. Not to mention he's elfish looking in nature, nothing buff or European about him in any way, shape, or form.)
"I know what's wrong." He declares after several minutes working on my feet. God, I hate my feet.
I give a muffled "hhmmfff" because after all my head is pressed into that donut-shaped space on the massage table.
"You need sex."
And there it is folks. The answer to it all.
This was in no manner a proposition. It was simply a diagnosis.
I mumbled, "Ya think?" Sarcasm dripped out along with the drool onto the massage table.
"Just tell the next guy you meet that your massage therapist said you need sex. As soon as possible," he can't help but let a little childlike giggle escape from his mouth as he works out the pain in my foot because I freaking pronate instead of supinate.
No, I don't mention that I'm meeting Chicago guy to Larry. Noooooo, not going to set myself up like that.
But it is so good to be diagnosed properly, don't you agree?