My Face Is Falling, And It Can't Get Up.

I lay in bed, a strip of sun across my cheek that managed to sneak in from a partially closed curtain. I peek out at the world between knotty hair and eyes that seem to have an opinion of their own about when they should open. I pull back the covers, attempt to throw my crooked, beaten bones over the side of the bed, stand up, wait for my vertebral column to be reacquainted with earths unfair gravity, assess my equilibrium, and work may way into the bathroom with the grace of someone with Polio trying to walk on a tightrope for the first time. I stagger into the bathroom and I look in the mirror. Out of my mouth comes a scream like I'm trying to more than pass the initiation for becoming the head clanswoman of the Swahili Tribe.

My eyes are slits, my face is...something...not good. It looks off-centered, or maybe that's due to only one eye opening. My hair looks like there should be something feral and contagious living in it. I shake my head and then whatever it was, falls out and runs across the room. Hello Monday.

I make a promise to myself.... "I will never, ever, ever, EVER, go out and party and drink that much liquor and come crawling home at 4 a.m. ever, EVER again. And then I realized something even scarier than my reflection. I didn't go out last night at all. Nor did I drink. This is sober Dawn. Sober Dawn who went to bed at 10 o'clock. With Chamomile tea, and a book.


I quickly shower, hoping to scrub my face off entirely with the best exfoliator known to mankind. Driveway gravel. Spring Scented. Get out of the shower, throw on a towel, and artfully dodge every mirror / remotely reflective surface and or piece of aluminum foil in my house in fear of encountering that woman who was angrily leering at me in the mirror earlier that morning.


I was getting ready to make my way into NYC. A place where as we all know, kids and grown ups alike dress way too trendy and get nose jobs and modeling contracts on their way to school. So I figured I'd better attempt to pull my shit together before I leave. Okay, let's see...... sweatpants?... or….sweatpants without the string. So many runway choices, I'm paralyzed with indecision.


I find something nice and underwhelming, throw it on, smear some makeup on, and run out the door. I spontaneously decide to stop in the diner first for a quick egg white omelet and cup of coffee so I could maybe wake up and start resembling something that wouldn't invariably be mistaken for an ER victim and be whisked away on a cot.


I sit down. I really need coffee. The kind that's so thick it can be used for setting deck posts.
I look to my left. There's a poor, little, bruised up, really, really old lady sitting there with her friend. Both are very old. I'm sure one of them knew Abraham Lincoln. Or Christ.

I planned on only staying for about a half an hour. But I ended up missing my train because I basically spend the afternoon in the diner booth, watching this very old woman, with a huge black and blue mark covering her face, drink a cup of coffee.


Now, I don't mean I watched her drink her coffee at some point during the afternoon. What I mean is, half of my afternoon was dedicated to watching this poor little old woman, physically try and negotiate her coffee cup to her lips, and the other two hours of the afternoon, was dedicated to watching her try to put it down.
Suddenly, I didn't feel old. I felt like 4 and a half, and wondered why I didn't take Play Doh with me.


The only time I hear her speak, was her explaining to the waitress that her face was so severely bruised because she fell down a flight of stairs twice in one week. I truly wanted to cry. Although that could've just been an adverse reaction to pink polyester pants with coffee stains and pieces of egg on them. But whatever it was, did make my eyes tear.


I started to think that maybe this poor woman was put before me, to remind myself that despite me looking exhausted that day, I was young enough, vivacious enough, and forthright enough to still go out into this world with a voice, and a passion, and with physical conviction, and still make a difference somehow. Which was a very cool epiphany. However in addition to that epiphany was another one: The realization that my previous scary morning face, was just a little glimpse into the more misshapen facial features to come.



I grabbed my phone and Googled "amazing plastic surgeons/ anywhere in the world" faster than you can say "hematoma."


*Deep breath*. I don't wanna get old. First off, I'm opinionated now. Picture that in 50 years. You'll open my door and all that'll be left of me is a flapping tongue and a frowning pair of eyebrows on the floor.


Secondly, I don't want to get old because they don't have diapers available in velvet thong, but mostly, because I don't deal with my own personal asymmetry very well. Don't even think about moving my perfectly opposing fireplace candles, no less my nasal labial folds. I don't care if you're as crooked as Lyle Lovett in the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Just please don't let it be me.


Why does everything about us eventually move South. First our face does, and then we move down to Florida. And who's idea was it to install gravity below us. Why not midway so that everything stays where it's supposed to. I need to see a manager.


If getting old ultimately means losing your quality of life, not being able to mechanically function, needing a calendar to figure out the beginning and end date of the completion of an 8 oz. cup of coffee, falling down a flight of stairs face first is your only regular, daily activity, and I have to look like a Halloween decoration in the process, I'd rather go out James Dean style. Granted, dead in a car, but something to say for being forever remembered in your youthful, shining glory that somewhere, sadly down the line, ear hair, chin hair, melted faces and fear of moths/moth ball stench makes those around us forget we were ever privy to. And I'm certainly not stickin around just to buy those baby blue polyester stretch pants.


Seriously. Am I really supposed to want to eventually look like I thawed? Am I supposed to want my skin on my cheekbones to eventually be worn as shoulder pads? Am I supposed to want someone to eventually be able to use my crepe-like skin as party decorations for my own 60th birthday party?
No. It's highly tacky to use your own skin for your own surprise party.


And please, don't say: "...But it's natural to get old…."
Well it's natural for your breath to smell if you don't brush your teeth, but we brush our teeth, it's natural for your teeth to yellow if you drink coffee or red wine, but we love our Crest WhiteStrips, and it's also natural to lose all your teeth if someone should swing a baseball bat at them, so I'd advise the person who thought that to take my side.


And then people say: "..Yeah, but that's different...that's an accident."
Well sweetheart, so is my aging decrepit face. I never planned on that shit happening either.


Let's of course, not forget the people who feel compelled to say, "...lines and wrinkles show you have experience". Pfft. Oh please. That's what resumes and sex are for.
And the ever popular, "...Yeah I'm NEVER getting plastic surgery, I just want to get old gracefully" people.


The people I'm referring to are of course, always girls in their 20's, whose looks aren't even remotely accurate yet. They still have one foot in their mothers uterus and their faces still harbor some of their mothers magical healing placenta lingering on it. Hence, faces still as tight as a drill sergeants bed sheets.
Come talk to me after your chronic trips to tanning salons turn you into a permanent nacho and a couple of babies have suckled your boobs for 4 years, so much so that your breasts are no longer eligible for a bra, but from where they're newly located, more like eligible for sneakers.


"I just want to age gracefully."
I'm not sure I even know what "Aging Gracefully" means. There's nothing "graceful" about your eyelids eventually falling onto your corneas like a poorly pitched tent. Old people aren't blind, they just have skin hanging over their awesome vision. Nothing graceful about being able to tie 2 stretched out boobs into a sailors knot. Nothing. No matter how slow the process. Nor is "Aging Gracefully", some type of personal choice based on a whimsical declaration. Your face will do what it wants. Irrespective of a naive desire to still look ravishing by 50, you'll more than likely, look like ass shit.


The way I see it, there's nothing wrong with just wanting to keep your face where it's supposed to be - not changing it, just not needing a dustpan to pick it up off the floor.
Come on. Look at the Egyptians. The makeup, the jewelry... even dead, they're gorgeous and youthful looking. They planned and prepared for the eventuality of old age and death by dedicating their entire lives to preserving themselves and erecting tombs. Well, sorry. My back hurts. And I'm not moving 2 1/2 ton blocks unless King Tut's paying for my back surgery. And last I checked, there's no pilates or spin classes for your face. So my"planning and preparing" will consist of getting Restylane shots into my facial furrows and attending plastic surgery banquets.


Yes, true. That little old lady was adorable. We love little old people. Their presence reminds us of our impermanence here. She wouldn't be adorable if she looked like Cher, and I do believe they were roughly the same age. But while I am aware that everything from your face to your living room couch eventually deteriorates and falls apart, and is part of a natural order, I'm also aware that old age is mean and nasty and doesn't treat everyone the same way, nor does it accept bribes or respond to threats about their mother, which I discovered was just a lot of wasted energy on my part.
Take Paul Newman for example. Old age treated him pretty damn well. But now take Marlon Brando. It treated him like Jabba the Hutt. It even made Keith Richards be able to walk around and do photo shoots even though I'm sure he died.


So as "natural" as aging may be, unless you're a Shar-Pei, it just doesn't seem "natural" to be happy about becoming a Shar Pei, and be able to hide things like BonBons, and full sets of encyclopedias in your face.


And good genes can only carry you for so long. I have pretty good genes in my family, and morning mirror reflections are still made up of images that challenge "Saw III" movie posters. So seriously, fuck anyone with their aging gracefully bullshit until their single, and 50. Watch how fast their opinion changes, when they're no longer judging the world, from the temporary vantage point of their current perky boob.


Now, I'm not being ungrateful, I am aware that there are people out there with more critical physical issues than say, vanity... and also at this juncture in my life, I could've looked like the talking tree from The Wizard Of Oz. I'd just like to hopefully preempt some possible facial landslides and avoid rudely awakening nice tenants maybe living below me when my face suddenly decides to go Sir Isaac Newton on me, and break their chandelier. Which is just me being a conscientious human being.


Believe me, the thought of something like Botox, the boccelism bacteria, potentially being shot right next to the only brain I barely have, still scares the shit out of me.
I'd definitely feel more comfortable if there were an option to look younger by shooting a lemur into my forehead instead, so I can actually see it. So if it happens to get bored and start walking towards my brain, I'll just smack myself in the head and kill it. But technology's not quite there yet.


Anyway, a few weeks go by, and because my life is a constant wave of exotic locales and samplings, I find myself in the diner again with a friend. And I couldn't help but think about the little old woman who only a few weeks before, was sitting just opposite me. I wondered how she was. If she were doing okay. If she was sipping and falling somewhere.


They bring me over a cup of hot coffee. I guess I felt the subconscious need to prove to myself that I was still young enough to drink my coffee in under a day and a half. I swallow it. 186º later, I scorch the entire back of my throat, burn every single taste bud, and my entire esophagus lining, was no more. And that point I was met with a sudden sense of relief. Wow. That's awesome Dawn! I'm pretty damn stupid. Maybe I'm young, after all.


: )~
~dawn

To Myself

I've heard this before. That someones best quality is often their worst quality, too. I believe this to be true. I've consistently seen this through others, as well as know this to be true of myself. Someone that'll tell off a rude person somewhere can be a good thing because at times, you might say, feel protected with that person. But that same person has the ability to anger and tell you off as well, when maybe you didn't deserve it. Or if someone is cute and shy. Seems like an endearing quality, and then someone is bad to someone they should defend, and  they do nothing, because they're 'cute and shy', and afraid to look 'bad'. Our qualities are great at times, and not at others.

As I said earlier, I know this holds true for me as well. I feel my best quality is that I give my heart, and of myself to whatever I do, and to whomever I'm with. Friends, family, lovers, etc. I give and give genuinely to people that I get a good feeling from. And my worst quality is the same. I love hard, and have a tendency to feel not only people's happiness, but their pain as well. I'll also give my heart to anyone before I'm able to know if the time and dedication that goes along with that, was earned or will be respected. My only reasoning for this is that I trust my gut before I trust hard core facts. And by saying I trust my gut, I don't mean I pursue things that I know will necessarily have a positive ending in the conventional sense. What I mean is, I follow my intuition because I know I ultimately seek out what I need at that time in my life, my instincts guide me and I feel they will somehow lead me correctly in a direction to gain a specific insight I hadn't had before, that I'll need to learn from in order to pursue the next big turn in my life.

I pride myself on living my life by not just breathing, but by living it emotionally alive and aware, with big feelings, and big passion, and big hopes and often without hesitation to apparent consequences. I do my best to indulge in the surrendering of a feeling, be it good, or bad, sadness or happiness, laughter or tears…whatever it is I'm feeling, I'm in it because I love to feel, nor am i afraid to feel. 

Growing up with not much,  I've learned to see beauty and opportunity in what others might see as glaring flaws and a reason to abandon something, whether it's in people, in objects, in love, in romance, in pretty much everything I encounter. I like to work with what I have and not what 'should' be, by societal means. However, mediocrity is not something I'm good at accepting in myself. And for all I know, that mediocrity could be viewed as exceptional in someone else's eyes, but I'd never know it, nor see it, nor accept it as a claim, because I expect a lot from myself, on many levels. 

I bring this up for a point I'm trying to prove to myself. 

This way of thinking unfortunately leaves you feeling you've done nothing great, accomplished nothing special, and are therefore worth nothing. It manifests in your life as you becoming used to, and completely comfortable with all that is out of reach--be it goals, healthy relationships, and with everything else important that you'd like, because you yourself set it up that way, convincing yourself that the magic and beauty that truly resides in you, is not there --now--, but somewhere in the future. You feel you're not worthy enough, in where you currently are, to expect nor request something from others that would validate your person at this moment. 

My personal philosophy is that not one living soul nor any living entity has ever grown from walking a painless path. Pain is a path to enlightenment and discovery. Metaphorically, my instincts are to always walk a more arduous road than an easier one, a more slippery slope, one by myself, rather than simply expressing discomfort in a situation, opening up the possibilities for dialogue and discovery, and finding easier solutions than stuffing down pain. 

That has had it's place and role in my life for sure. But recently I've looked at this and I'm not sure it's working to my benefit anymore. It's making me hurt and be okay with hurt. It's making me too familiar and content with ambiguity. It's making me shut down the communication skills I usually pride myself in sharing. 

And so I write this to me today, to remind myself that a change of perception in who I am, and of what I require out of life, and from the people that either permanently or temporarily occupy that space with me, seems to be in order, for me to truly grow in the right direction. And that's what I want to do. Grow.

One day I'll get it right. I haven't yet, but I will. One day.

Dear Stepford Wife, Let Me Rephrase That.

Last weekend at my son Derek's baseball game, this British man/husband/father of one of the boys on the team, asked if Derek would like a playdate with their son Kyle. I graciously reciprocate the offer, but we decide on his house in the end. Several hours later, I go to pick up Derek. Here's how it went down:

Ding dong (...I wait..............................)

Door opens... wife is there.

ME: "Oh Hhhhiii!! How are you!!! (big Dawn smiles) I'm Derek's mom, Dawn? So nice to meet you!!!! " ( I solidly shake her hand )

ME: " I'm soooo sorry I'm 5 minutes late, i forgot I was picking him up here-because you're sweet husband usually always drops him off with me after the boys play, but i spaced there for a minute. " I giggle.

(no response)

(I enter the house.)

ME: "Woww!!! What a beautiful home. This is great!! So clean. My god!!! How do you keep it like this??!

Did you guys just move in?!!! It's so pretty! Wow this is great..." (I get the infamous female up and down scan...)

MOTHERS RESPONSE: "Ehm..no.. we've been here....'Derek! Your mother has arrived."

(I nervously giggle.)

ME: " Thank you so, so much for having him over this afternoon. He loves your son. Anytime you'd like your son Kyle to come by me, just call- he's welcome anytime. (pregnant pause)

MOTHER: 'Derek!.....your mother is here!" (I get the scan again.)

ME: " I'm so sorry hes taking so long...I think he likes it better here than at my house. haahahaaa. "

(awkward silence)

*throat clear*

ME: "...So what are you guys doing for the memorial day weekend? Just chillin out here? it's so beautiful out, it almost doesn't matter what you do right?" (I'm thinking, did i just say 'chillin'-this woman doesn't have a chill bone in her body. I'm 100% sure she thought I was there to mug her).

(I get no smile back.)

THE MOTHER: " Well I'm trying to have a rather big dinner party / get together tonight..."

ME: " OMG, I'm sooo sorry...I had no idea..Derek!!...come on hun, Mrs. Smith has some people coming over soon...we need to go, can you put some gas on it please?"

ME TO MOTHER: " Yeah I know how dinner parties are- so much work, I try and do it whenever I can...I love cooking for people...but it's not easy when the kids are home...giggle...I'm such a scatter brain that I actually have to write everything down that I'm doing- with the exact time I'm supposed to do everything, or forget it- the pastas overcooked, the chickens dried out, I forget something in the oven... if I don't write it down, I'll forget to even take a shower haha. ha. ha."

(stares at me)

(long stare)

MOTHER: "Yes. Derek's a wonderful child. Oh you have another child? "

(scan #13)

ME: "Yes. I have another KID. Justin. He's 13. Great kid. But was real challenging to deal with when he was Dereks age..." (Ooops, maybe too much information there. Because I'm getting the 'WE DON'T TALK ABOUT OUR PROBLEMS HERE' look.)

Derek rounds the corner in his baseball uniform I left him in after the game, but wearing his friend Andrews T-shirt instead of his own. ME: " Hi baby..wheres your baseball shirt honey? "

DEREK: " Oh they washed it for me and gave me this one to wear instead. "

She walks into the kitchen to grab Derek's T-shirt that she washed for him, that he initially came to their house wearing.

As I quietly follow behind her, I see the live-in housekeeper / nanny subserviently postured in the kitchen over a bowl that has about 15 nachos in it. I glance at the dinner table and see its set for 8.

Once again, I apologize for Derek being such a grassy mess in her house. She sort of musters a grin in my direction, and responds rather tersely and indecipherably as she escorts Derek and myself to the front door. I thank her again profusely for having Derek there, give a big toothy smile and wave goodbye to the housekeeper, wish her a wonderful weekend, and step outside with Derek and get in my car.

That's how it went down.

But here's how it REALLY went down, in my head:

DIIIIIING DOOOOONG.... ( Jesus Christ, what the hell was THAT.....guess I'm here to see The Wizard.)

(...waiting...) 

(.........judging......)

Door opens, "(Holy Fucking Never Got Laid) ... I mean, "Hi!!! ... I'm Derek's mom Dawn!...and yeah it'd be a super deal if you actually smiled back."

ME: "So not nice to meet you! " I firmly shake her hand and step inside.

ME: " Question...Does your hand actually have any muscles in it that contract, or have you been paralyzed by some unfortunate tragic accident. Wwwow....Sooooooooooo.....this is your lovely home... *snnnort* ... I'm guessing that either nobody lives here....or you're doing a commercial shoot for Pledge in 5 minutes. So I'll try and be quick then.

Hey, do you and your husband perform surgeries here in the living room, or is your home possibly always this devoid of love and life. I'm getting the distinct feeling that i should've been wheeled in here on a hospital gurney. My apologies for walking... I think my dirty flip flops may cause your Infra-red dirt detecting laser beams and alarm systems to simultaneously go off. Should I maybe start crawling on the floors to avoid the poison blow darts, or am I cool. If you'd like, I'll take my sandals off. Really. I will. It would give me great pleasure to see you wince at my calloused feet. So just say the word.

Hmmm. I see no cats or dogs either...maybe that's what you're eating for dinner. Well, I guess everything warm blooded and living is off limits here. So I'll make my visit quick. " Ooooh look...the diminutive housekeeper. Let me guess, you're here to whisk something off the floor in case it so happens to God forbid fall there. But yay. At least a person of color. Maybe you, Mrs. Buckingham, are an open minded, 'people person' after all. Or do you perhaps have a cotton grove in the backyard, behind the labyrinth. And you too could smile a little Miss Bodyguard of the nachos.. Unlike your master, I wont beat you if you should decide.

Let me see..what the fucks hiding in this bowl.... 15 chips?...for an 8 person get together? That's 1.195 chips per person. Lady, Auschwitz death camps gave more food. You call this a get together??? I call this a Get The Hell Outta Here As Fast As You Can, Together. And I smell a big fat nothing cooking. Not one braised or sauteed anything. All I smell is disinfectant combined with Febreze, and some odorless gas I call frigidity. So toots, a party huh? So wheres the wine? Where's the frivolity? Where's the laughter? And where the hell's a smidgen of dirt? Oh wait, THERE he is! Its my son Derek! The other pigmented person. But this one comes fully equipped with a big ass smile, and chunks of grass and soil and some decapitated slugs pressed into his knee caps.

ME : " Hi sweetheart! I'm so glad I got here before they performed surgery on you in their boiled living room and extracted your heart. Phew. Just in time." " So honey...how the fuck did you play in all this ....lack of fun. And where's your shirt Derek.....you know.... the one that I left you in this morning after the game that resembled 'The Shroud Of Turin'? "

DEREK: "Oh, they washed it for me and gave me this one to wear instead. "

ME : "Oh they gave you one of their sons to wear while they washed yours? Awww so delightfully germiphobic of them. "

ME: "...So....wheres that pompous British husband of yours that incessantly flirts with me at your sons games that you're too detached to come to.???... You know, that guy that's always bragging about his dumb ass sailboat to me? Oh right, you have him on another Decontamination Run. Got it. Then again, I understand why hes not here... if this mausoleum is what your house feels like, i can only imagine what the sex feels like. You know...sex? a man, a woman? passion?? ...eh never mind." "OK, well bye bye miss housekeeper... I'll pray for you, and I'm growing rather concerned about your lack of ability to smile by the way. And I've convinced myself that its due to embarrassment because you most definitely have a mouth full of broken teeth as a result of these hi-resin, ice skating rinks you call 'floors' (...and so you know, the key to your shackles are under the Soul Vaporizer machine in the vestibule, I peeked). "

ME: " Well, Gotta run Mrs. Buckingham, have a wonderful time starving your friends. And by the way, your little 'chip off the ole ice block' son is never allowed in my house- since i never did care for statues. And I'm sure you wouldn't approve anyway, because I, on the other hand, have 3 dogs, and cats and plants, and framed family pictures, and some dog nose smudges on my doors, and prefer a slight degree of chaos, rumpled pillows and litter pan aromas in my house to remind myself that i have blood coursing through my veins...unlike yourself, who I'm convinced, like a scallop, would not bleed if I cut you. But i wont stab you with a steak knife to find out, seeing that this is only our first meeting.

...and please...don't forget to tell your arrogant, bumptious husband that I'll see him next week at the game, where I'll continue to pretend I'm listening to him as he's waxing eloquently about his haughty, pontifical nautical adventures while I fart in the wind. " "Well, I gotta get the fuck outta here before my face cracks off from all this fake smiling. It was an absolute nightmare to meet you. Goodbye, and...goddamn. And I hope to never see you again."

Ta-Ta. For now.

;)

Massage, My Ass

This was no massage. 
Massages are those things that feel so good you almost fall asleep during them, right? And think dirty thoughts. Not be trampled on like you're at a fire during a Slipknot concert.


Afterwards, I came home and Googled it once more just to make sure that I went to the right place.


Shiatsu: A form of therapy of Japanese origin based on the same principles as acupuncture, in which pressure is applied to certain points on the body using the hands.

(Also known as: I May've Just Gotten Run Over By A Car.)


Maybe I'm crazy, but when I think of the word "massage", there's definitely a few adjectives that can't help but come to my mind: Soothing, relaxing, luxurious, hedonistic, and of course, sensual.  So when I say: "Wow, I really need a massage", those are the words I'm hoping to acquaint myself with. 


I've learned however, that these are the adjectives applied to the word "massage" only when your adorably hot boyfriend or girlfriend is the one giving you the massage. Or possibly the fictitious swedish lady with the big boobs.

However, my previous lingual perception of "massage" was all about to change. Like turn on it's head and slam you in the knee caps with a battering ram, kind of change. At 3 p.m. today, the words "anguish", "Help!", and "Anata ga daikirai (I hate you), made it to the top of that previous bullshit list.

As part of a holistic detox mission I'm on, I decided to book an appointment with a hugely reputable Shiatsu massage therapist from Japan. 

For weeks my whole body had been aching from numerous injuries and defeated muscles. 
And all I wanted was nicey nice.

I walk in today for this supposed, luxurious, deep tissue, relaxing, hedonistic "massage".
I was greeted by a rather small, very sweet, demure woman who for now, we'll call Miss Yamamoto, even though my heart is now tempted to refer to her as, That Little Fuck. 


She gestures toward our massage room destination, and I quietly follow her.

She opens the door and I walk into the room where my luxuriousness is going to be realized. 

It's uber clean, beautifully tranquil, and there's a delicious candle burning to my right, along with delicately audible sounds of Japanese music, possibly playing in the closet, as well as a wide massage table draped in eucalyptus scented, soft linens, beckoning my arrival.

Although now I know it was beckoning my quiet whimpers. 

The ceilings are pretty high, and I glanced up and see dark wooden parallel bars mounted to the ceiling. Interesting.

I assumed it was either nothing more than just a decoration, or she and I were going to partake in a little friendly chin up competition after this supposed massage.


I was wrong on both counts.

As it turns out, I discovered that the parallel wooden monkey bars contraption mounted to the ceiling were more than likely, the weapons of mass destruction that George W. Bush could never find. And lo and behold, I innocently find them just casually hanging from the ceiling of some Asian massage parlor. 
Huh. 


In broken English, she proceeds to tell me to take everything off, and go under the sheets because this type of massage is done with the sheet completely covering me. 

I was definitely a little relieved that she wasn't an orthodox Jew because I had no intention of going there to get pregnant. Don't kid yourself. 
I still checked for sheet holes as I got under them.

I lay down, completely covered in the hole-free sheet. She walks in, smiles, and tells me I look like Julia Roberts, (and by the way, that's the racist equivalent of me telling her she looks like newscaster Connie Chung ), and she immediately digs in and starts "massaging" me - like she was trying to exorcise several demons from my spine. 
So I'm assuming at this point, for some reason, she wants Julia Roberts dead.

She continually whispers to me, to "relaaaax….Breeeeeeathe". And I would be relaxing, if the Swedish woman with the big boobs were in here massaging me, but as it turns out, I had Miss Yamamoto trying to violently knead me into a 9" pie crust.

Sensual? No. There was nothing sensual about this massage. Relaxing? Nothing relaxing about this massage. Deep? Yes. At one point her hand came out of my mouth. There wasn't even anything massagey about this massage. Unless you consider being crushed under someones entire body weight for an hour, a massage. 
It was like she was trying to manually move my lower intestine up to my armpit, and my liver into my eye socket. Pleasant, like that.

One session and I'm convinced they should offer you a Xanax or, shit, keep it in the eastern culture and offer you a few Sake Bombs before this massage. Without it, I was about as relaxed as a high resin surfboard. 

But the fun had only just begun.

A little side note.
Starting this New Year, I had made a solemn promise to myself; I wasn't going to take anyones crap anymore. And what do I do? I start it out signing up for someone walking all over my back. That was already the second broken New Year's resolution. (First one was to only spend time with people whom I enjoyed).

After 20 minutes of "loosening me up" (?), she folds a small, beautifully scented towel into a rectangle shape, and puts it over my eyes. I think, great, nows she's gonna shoot me. 
At least my suffering will soon be over.

My eyes were closed this whole time, so I have zero idea about what is ready to happen in the torture chamber that is my room. It smells good. But all other sensory information is saying "Hell child has spawned". "Run".

It gets quiet for a few seconds, and a few moments later, I hear strange sounds, like clanking metal. For a brief second I thought it was because my jaw was closed so tight that my fillings were banging together. But then I felt a pressure on my back that I had never felt before.

My curiosity gets the best of me, and I slightly turn my head so I can get a firsthand glimpse of the sadism du jour.

This little, quiet, understated woman, has climbed on top of the massage bed, and is now hanging from the bars on the ceiling, and walking across my back with her feet. This is Shiatsu. Kicking and crushing me to death. Said nothing about giant angry feet in Wikipedia. Thanks for the heads up on that one.

For the longest 40 minutes of my life, she dug her heels into my spine, ass, neck, calves, forearms, ankles, liver, wrists, spleen, lungs and some other body parts I never even knew I had, with the force of a gorilla hanging from a vine, kicking for his life as it's unwillingly being torn from his natural habitat by poachers.

"Relaaaax. (clank, clank, clank)…Relaaaxxxx", she whispers. 
Yes Lucifer, I'm trying to.

With 160 lbs. of guttural conviction, she presses her heels even deeper into my back, flattening my lungs into the depth of a glaze on a donut.

"Relllaaaaaaxxx..." (crush, crush, crush, clank)

"Mis...tress Chang??… it's.... hard... to... re......lax... when... I'm... spitting... blood... and......i.... think ... one... of... my... boobs... is... gonna... ex...plode".

Desperate for relief, I decided to start trying this impossible technique she earlier on called "breathing", and I found that to tolerate the pain, I was breathing so hard that she probably thought I was having a quadruple orgasm. 
But when I finally squeaked out a  "please…sss.....ssss....sstop", in the high pitched voice of a helium balloon sucking hamster slowly being crushed by a titanium steam roller, she knew I probably wasn't.

Orgasms. Pfft. No such luck. No happy endings here. Just miserable middles. 

Finally, the torture is just about done. I know this because my body is buzzing, my organs are in there new locations, and she just did a double spin, triple summersault dismount.
She turns me over.
Paint thinner and a putty knife was required.

But this time, she pulls up the sheet, not just to my shoulders, but all the way over my head.
And for a minute, we sit in silence.

Makes sense.

I guess this is the part where she's filling out my toe tag and we wait for the coroner.

;|

~dawn