When I say that I am obsessed with my little room, I don't mean it casually or with undue levity. I mean that I think I am clinically obsessed. It's the only thing I think of and I think of it every minute of the day. And when I close my eyes at night, I see pink stripes. My dreams are full of things I can do in my room, to my room, for my room. Before the first hint of the sun's rising, both feet hit the floor and I'm ready to go, my mind like a leaking sieve trying to keep all of the silly ideas my dreams gave me.
All of this hubbub is taking a toll on a few areas in my life. For instance, my house. It is a disaster. Everywhere I look. And if you were to see the pile of dishes at my sink I'm sure you would wonder how anyone who could allow such a thing could ever make or do anything pretty. Rich has been vaccuuming almost daily although there is barely a pathway wide enough for the machine to get through. And the vaccuum coughs with buttons and beads and other lovelies which had escaped onto the floor.
And my body aches. All of it. My ribs when I breathe. My feet. My knees. There's a bruise, I do believe, on my hineyparts. I do not know how such a bruise came to be and the whole thing (hiney) aches. Which brings me to a funny story that I'd like to share. It's been such a while since I've told a funny story and this one is (I think) one of my funniest.
I used to treat myself to massages regularly. The place that I usually went to was a sprawling golf resort. On this particular time that I went to the resort there was a lot of construction going on. Everything looked different and it looked like they'd changed their name from "Lansdowne" to "Leisure World". Before I knew it I was at a gate with an attendent. I thought to myself (probably much like Hyacinth Bucket would think) "Oh how exclusive! They have a gate with an attendent." Said attendent had a clipboard with presumably a list of approved visitors. He asked me my name which I gave. With a finger guiding his search he studied his list thoroughly and asked my name again. He then asked who I was there to see. I replied that I did not know the name of the person I was seeing but that I had an appointment for a massage. He looked at me again. Looked through his list again. I was growing impatient of this new level of security. I said to him that I thought if he called someone he could find out who I was there to see and that I had an appointment. He looked over the list again and then the thought must have come to him. He said to me "Lady, do you know that you're at the old folks home?"
Now I think it was the same visit to this resort (which I did eventually find) where I got my famous (and last!) butt massage. A few weeks earlier my friend who was studying to be a massage therapist insisted that one should remove ones underpanties when getting a massage. So on this visit to get a massage to not be thought of as a prude (which I do think I might be since I felt so uncomfortable) I removed all of my clothes, including all undergarments, and covered myself with the sheet they provide. The massage therapist was a man, which I thought I could be okay with (again wanting not to be thought of as a prude), but let me continue. After about 15 minutes of my massage, the therapist must have noted my bareness and took that as an invitation to "work" that area. I was truly uncomfortable with this but remained mute. More to the point, I clenched the muscles there. He must have thought "Wow these muscles need a lot of work...look how tight they are" because he took the rest of the time (45 minutes) to thoroughly work this area. I felt utterly molested and the opposite of relaxed. That was my last massage. I'm long overdue.