I wanna touch you all over
Hello from the snowy peaks of Park City. I interrupt my blogging slumber to bring what I hope is an entertaining entry for you. The vacation is going swimmingly; the skiing is awesome (8 inches of fresh powder today), the hotel is fantastic, we end each day in the heated outdoor pool being served frosty beers by an adorable Aussie waiter...what more can you ask for? I thought to myself, "Self, what more can you do to make this vacation memorable?" I decided to get a massage. The first ever in my life. A stranger to all things decadent, I figured this was the moment to go for the gold and indulge myself.
I am a terrible candidate for a massage.
Here's why. (Reasons given in ascending order of contribution to this blog entry.) P.S. This is no offense to you Linda, really, I'm not sure you could have done anything any better than you did.
1) I can't relax. I am a big ball of tension all the time. Always looking, always judging, always worrying. You would think that someone like me would be a great candidate for a massage. Isn't that what massages are supposed to do? Relax you? Thus brings up the terrible paradox. I need the massage to relax, yet while I am in the massage, I can't relax. Why can't I relax? Read on.
2) I am too self-conscious. This manifests itself in two ways. I keep wondering through the entire thing what the masseuse thinks of me. I mean, honestly, she must see ten asses a day. Can you blame me for wondering how mine compares as she works my blubber around? Any self-respecting twenty something female would naturally feel the same way. Second, I am too self conscious to tell her when I want her to do something different, because I am afraid that little old me can't possibly know as much as she does about what's good for my achy muscles. I feel too self-conscious, in fact, to tell her that the hot stones she is currently using to work on my quad, while soothing and therapeutic, is in fact singing my leg hair.
3) I can't help but want to laugh at inappropriate times. This is the blogger's curse. Always on the lookout for something funny to write about, yet when said funny thing is encountered, you think about what you will later write, and laugh at it, failing to remember that you are still involved in the situation where others involved may not appreciate being laughed at for the sake of the five people who read your blog. A massage is rife with opportunity. You're naked and vulnerable. There's weirdo music playing that could be construed as easy listening K-lite 104.7 or, at times, the lead in to a porno. There's the fact that you end the massage as the human equivalent of a greased monkey. Towards the end, I was afraid of sliding off the table, out the door, down the hall, and into the cold, cold night. I still can't manage a door handle.
Perhaps the life of luxury just isn't for me...
I am a terrible candidate for a massage.
Here's why. (Reasons given in ascending order of contribution to this blog entry.) P.S. This is no offense to you Linda, really, I'm not sure you could have done anything any better than you did.
1) I can't relax. I am a big ball of tension all the time. Always looking, always judging, always worrying. You would think that someone like me would be a great candidate for a massage. Isn't that what massages are supposed to do? Relax you? Thus brings up the terrible paradox. I need the massage to relax, yet while I am in the massage, I can't relax. Why can't I relax? Read on.
2) I am too self-conscious. This manifests itself in two ways. I keep wondering through the entire thing what the masseuse thinks of me. I mean, honestly, she must see ten asses a day. Can you blame me for wondering how mine compares as she works my blubber around? Any self-respecting twenty something female would naturally feel the same way. Second, I am too self conscious to tell her when I want her to do something different, because I am afraid that little old me can't possibly know as much as she does about what's good for my achy muscles. I feel too self-conscious, in fact, to tell her that the hot stones she is currently using to work on my quad, while soothing and therapeutic, is in fact singing my leg hair.
3) I can't help but want to laugh at inappropriate times. This is the blogger's curse. Always on the lookout for something funny to write about, yet when said funny thing is encountered, you think about what you will later write, and laugh at it, failing to remember that you are still involved in the situation where others involved may not appreciate being laughed at for the sake of the five people who read your blog. A massage is rife with opportunity. You're naked and vulnerable. There's weirdo music playing that could be construed as easy listening K-lite 104.7 or, at times, the lead in to a porno. There's the fact that you end the massage as the human equivalent of a greased monkey. Towards the end, I was afraid of sliding off the table, out the door, down the hall, and into the cold, cold night. I still can't manage a door handle.
Perhaps the life of luxury just isn't for me...
posted by KEM @ 7:02 PM
1 Comments:
At February 9, 2005 7:59 AM,
SCS said…
That's fine. Let some ski-lax babe rub your nether-regions. Meanwhile, Boogeyman just sits at the multiplex, sight unseen. I get your priorities.
In other news, a vacation-blog is the true mark of a blogger. Well done.
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