Massage Mayhem

Just mentioning the word “massage table” might give you the idea that I am filthy rich and eating my weight in bonbons. When I’m not on the massage table.  And you would be wrong. You would also be wrong if you thought I was at one of those *wink wink* massage places. Just so you know.

I “accidentally” signed up for a monthly massage (reduced rate) at a massage therapy spot nearby. I say “accidentally” because I don’t want to be rude. And the first visit was great. They charge me for a monthly massage, whether I’m dead or alive. I thought I could cancel easily … but the fine print says I must send a handwritten letter in a bottle on the second day after a blue moon. Aggghhhhhhh! I thought it would be a good idea to cash in on my monthly “purchase”; am residing in Stressville and, to quote my dad, currently, “If I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.” I thought a massage would help. I am an idiot. A polite idiot, but idiot nonetheless.

“Jacey” took me to my room where I disrobed and jumped under the covers. He returned, asked me what type of massage therapy I wanted, and I was VERY CLEAR that it would be shoulders, neck, and arms ONLY.  And I began to relax as he removed my shoulders from my ears. Ten minutes in, I was r-e-l-a-x-i-n-g.

The next thing I know, “Jacey” moved to my feet. And the conversation in my head went this way for the next 50 minutes:

“I HATE feet. What is he doing? Feet are ugly. Useful. But ugly. How can he confuse feet with shoulders?”

Oh, God. He has a foot fetish. What is he doing? This is weird. Get away from my feet or I will kill you.”

Then he wrapped my feet in hot towels and told me to flip over. I thought maybe now that I was face up, he’d snap out of it. My mistake. He put an eye pillow over my peepers, then proceeded to drape the covers so that my right foot, leg and almost my “privacy” was exposed.

“Excuse me, freak, but that is not a shoulder. What is he doing? Get away from my privacy. I’m supposed to relax. This sucks!”

He returned to foot fetish land, working that right foot for all it’s worth; then regrouping and groping the left one.

“What is the freaking deal with my feet? I am NOT relaxed, I am in a misery. And am too chicken to yell at you, you perv!”

Finally, he covered my feet. Then he came to the head of the table and ruffled my hair, as you would a little boy or a dog. WTH? And then he left.

“God is good. He’s gone. I am free!”

It was the second weirdest, worst massage ever. Second only to the one where the massage therapist had a hang nail and when she was finished, my back looked like a barber pole.

I need to grow some. When my life luck changes. Hopefully sooner than …

Later.

Sheesh.

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A Crock of …

 

I wish I had his shirt. Not his shit, just the shirt.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I’ll write. If you are coming late to the party, I absolutely DO NOT  nor have I ever had any interest in online dating. Soooo happy for all the happy couples who met that way. So glad it works for so many. So glad if you like lima beans. I don’t. And that is my prerogative. Online dating + me = NO FRIGGING WAY. Which makes the next part of this story ironic.

Stuck in the house like the rest of the country, I’m on the computer … a lot. Oh boy, here’s a free personality test. I love those, I mean, there is always room for improvement, right? It started out simply … no real names, interests, yada yada … and before I knew it, I was in a bait-and-switch operation, on an online dating site. Ok, screw you, scammers. So I filled in their questions with some real and many false answers.

  • Do you smoke? Constantly!
  • How many drinks do you have per week? Can’t count that high.
  • Education level? Forth fOrt fourth grade
  • Income? ( -$150,000.79) that would be negative
  • Favorite music? Appalachian garage bands
  • Your idea of a great date? Get stinking drunk, throw up on the beach, start drinking again, get arrested.

Then there was a spot where you had to write 200 words about yourself. I typed “Blah” until it reached the stopping point. No photo, nothing. Next thing I know, an email address I have reserved for “trash” is full of creepy “matches”. DELETE. And they just kept coming. DELETE x 30. Really. I assure you, with the information I provided, a man would have to be a psychopath to want to “chat”. Psychopath is so last year. Really.

Had to make all sorts of threats to the administrators of the site to remove myself. I never “joined” or paid a dime. So, my inadvertent and very brief experience with online dating was over before it ever got started. Thank God.

Today, Lady Di sent me an email. She has a precious friend in Arizona who does use one of those sites. The email included her friends’ new “matches”. I almost started crying for her and I don’t even know her. Never have I seen a more motley crew of Eeyores. I know it is shallow to judge anyone, especially by photo. But if these poor souls were putting their best face forward, well, it can best be described as desperate Photoshop situation.

If it’s not organic, I don’t want to play. Which brings many “tsk tsks” from well-meaning friends; the few who haven’t given up on me as a “hopeless case”. After my divorce, I was with a group of women and we were talking about dating. Out of eight, two of us were single. When I said  it was rather difficult to meet nice people, one of the women turned to me and said, “You had your chance and you blew it. That part of your life is over”. Meaning, because my marriage didn’t last, there was absolutely no reason to consider another relationship. Ever.

Hmmm. That comment knocked the wind out of me. I’ve made peace with her and her comment; I make daily peace with the fact that all circumstances indicate she’s right. At least she didn’t say, “Good things come to those who wait” or any of the other platitudes that do more harm than good. And this is the part where I say …. WHATEVER. Enough.

In the WTF department: just stepped outside to turn on a light and A BIRD SHAT ON MY HEAD. This is getting ridiculous. First my wrist, then my chesticle, now my head. Surely someone can find some meaning in this other than I am a bird shit magnet. Aggghhhhhhhhh!

Stay warm. It is colder here in Texas than it is in Alaska right now.

Later. Maybe.