Wounds

I'm here - wobbly, but here. As I've said before, everyone has sad stories so we're no different. We work every day to get up, dust it off and get back in the game. We're trying to move forward. In the meantime, it's all about stress management.

It was a spontaneous decision, I arrived at the gym after work and instead of dragging my suddenly concrete feet to the punishing treadmill, I headed for the spa.

Me: "Hi, sorry for the short notice. Any massages available tonight?"
Irritatingly calm, serious spa employee (ICSSE): "Yes, I believe we can accommodate you ma'am."

Ok, never call me ma'am. Ever.

Me: "Really? Great! But I have to warn you. My legs are a lit-tle hairy."
ICSSE: Long pause. "Um. Right. Ok. Do you prefer a man or a woman?"
Me: "Probably a woman. You know, because of the whole hairy leg thing."
ICSSE: "Melissa will be with you shortly. Please put on this robe and wait in the front."

It was my only chance. I grabbed the robe and sprinted into the locker room. To a girl from Indiana, it's one of those fancy locker rooms. With Kiehl's products and a steam room and free Q-tips. And disposable razors.

I turn on the the water in the shower, cold because of my obvious time constraints, and make rapid blade to skin contact. My first sensation is relief, purely housed in my self-esteem because Melissa won't have to comb through the forest and will perceive me as woman of great grooming standards.

Melissa met me in the Zen place.

Melissa: "Hello Megan"
Me: "I shaved my legs!"
Melissa (clearly trained by the spa's personality-crushing methods): "I see. Is there anything that's bothering you, in particular, today?

I wanted to tell serious, socially repressed Melissa that it's all really hard right now. That I swallow my tears daily, that it's hard to get out of bed in the morning. But I think she wanted me to reference my hamstring tightness, so I did. Anyone who references their hamstrings is clearly in great shape and likely, well-groomed.

The table was warm and almost enough to warrant the $120 service alone. Within moments, blood began to squirt from my extremely pale, dry, raw chicken-like limbs. They burned like flames, only intensified by her overly fragranced, kinky massage oil. I begin to wonder if Melissa would now refuse to friend me on Facebook.

My next massage will be much more relaxing, I'm sure. And I probably won't have to steal the bloody table sheet. And the robe.