Today I did a particularly uncharacteristic thing (only more shocking since the principal feature of my character is to resent any sort of change). The offending action was a massage, an unlikely thing because it is a frivolous expense and because I am prude unrivaled by anyone outside of the Shaker/Quaker demographic.
I went and got this massage (and hear my defenses, oh judgmental internet) not for some pansy relaxation, but because my mad carpal tunnel has been flaring up violently. Just yesterday I had my hand turn into a claw of pain when I was adjusting the quilt on the couch, and since I must have the finger mobility to pretend that I am cleaning my house, I decided to pursue some help. Of course I didn’t go to see the doctor, because I’ve been a million times since my fingers started doing their impression of heart-attack symptoms only to leave with a set of wrist splints and a heart pat on the back.
So I went and got a massage and though I was quite earnestly freaked out, I managed to calm myself by focusing on the fact that the massage person looked like gym teacher (you know, sneakers, gently balding, polo shirt). I did my best to focus on this and the periodic wild monkey calls in the soothing jungle tunes that they pipe into the rooms.
I would consider today as the most unclothed that I’ve ever been in public (note: not real public, this wasn't one of those middle-of-mall shacks that sells cellphone skins on the side). Is this admirable? Or does it just make me feel worse about my voodoo backsliding?
No answers here. I will admit to be writing this mainly as a distraction. A certain human of my personal acquaintance is making his radio debut and listening to it is giving me a alarming surrogate stage fright.
I went and got this massage (and hear my defenses, oh judgmental internet) not for some pansy relaxation, but because my mad carpal tunnel has been flaring up violently. Just yesterday I had my hand turn into a claw of pain when I was adjusting the quilt on the couch, and since I must have the finger mobility to pretend that I am cleaning my house, I decided to pursue some help. Of course I didn’t go to see the doctor, because I’ve been a million times since my fingers started doing their impression of heart-attack symptoms only to leave with a set of wrist splints and a heart pat on the back.
So I went and got a massage and though I was quite earnestly freaked out, I managed to calm myself by focusing on the fact that the massage person looked like gym teacher (you know, sneakers, gently balding, polo shirt). I did my best to focus on this and the periodic wild monkey calls in the soothing jungle tunes that they pipe into the rooms.
I would consider today as the most unclothed that I’ve ever been in public (note: not real public, this wasn't one of those middle-of-mall shacks that sells cellphone skins on the side). Is this admirable? Or does it just make me feel worse about my voodoo backsliding?
No answers here. I will admit to be writing this mainly as a distraction. A certain human of my personal acquaintance is making his radio debut and listening to it is giving me a alarming surrogate stage fright.
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