Oh Lately It’s So Quiet

Have you noticed that? The post-New Year’s drought of words of wisdom from this quarter? It’s not that I’m not diligently typing away in the back rooms of this blog, it’s just that I’ve only been able to produce vitriolic attacks on everything from cotton candy unicorns to fiscal cliffs because, honestly, I’ve been extremely angry at everything for the last two weeks. So much uncontrollable rage, but why?

Oh my god it's so gross I WANT IT INSIDE OF ME

SO GROSS BUT I WANT IT INSIDE OF ME

I’m simply hungry. Really hungry, all the time. Wake up hungry, go to bed hungry, with very little respite from hunger in between. Hungry in the bread basket of America, where I’m constantly reminded of how available Jalapeno Turkey Burgers are at Carl’s Jr., or that there are donuts in the break room every goddamn day. (Shut UP, Steve, I know there are donuts here! I sense maple glaze like it’s a disturbance in the force!) This is the kind of hunger that makes me believe I know EXACTLY what it must have been like in a Soviet prison camp.

No disrespect, but I FEEL like I feel you, bros.

YES, we’ve established I’m an asshole, YES this is all my own fault so I can’t complain or tell Steve to stop telling me about the donuts during these hunger games. Readers: I knowingly and willingly committed to a 30 day cleanse. Forgive me my sins.

Sure, I COULD claim I’m doing this for the hippie-dippy benefits: Health! Oozing out toxins! If you could only flip me inside out and see how clean my internal organs are! Lies, mostly. Anyone who has ever hung out with me over a weekend knows I have only contempt for my organs and treat them like garbage. When one removes eating form their daily routine, one finds a lot of time on their hands to think about their motivations. And here’s the terrible truth: I’ve got a black, gooey, throbbing tumor of female body issues and I HATE IT. But I’m getting skinny as hell and I fucking LOVE THAT.

Whatever holes in me were previously occupied by toxins are now filled with shame. How could this have happened? How could I have worked so hard and projected such a badass exterior of not giving a shit about girly crap like ass size and STILL fall victim to just wanting to be thin?! How?! Why?! Because of course it’s only a projection and patriarchy is internalized etc etc unrealistic standards of female beauty blah blah blah. So here I am thinner, yet feeling ever so hypocritical (and yearning so strongly for a donut it’s creepy). Food lust aside, is there anything worse than having to face your own abject normalness? Me and the rest of the world, we all have the same broken parts. .

But will staring at this conundrum stop me from finishing the next two weeks of this cleanse?

Probably not.

Because, you know, all the health benefits.

Thoughts on a Massage

Alright, so mom stuck with me the dude masseuse. Bitch. So which one is it? Ugh. Stomach is nervous. Should I pee? I peed like 20 minutes ago. I think? Yes. Why do I get nervous? Not your first massage, douche. Relax. Oh, there’s a dude. Oh, I hope it’s not this little bald dude. Why? I don’t know why actually. He’s beady-eyed? You’re being crappy. Stop. But he looks like a gym teacher. SO WHAT. But I hope it’s not him. Please let another guy come out. Please.

Oh, okay. Nother dude. Okay this man is big. And a little pear-shaped huh? How old is this guy? Exactly my age it appears. That’s weird. It shouldn’t be weird. Why is it weird? Who cares?

“Hi Megan, I’m Peter. Nice to meet you”

“Hello! How are you?”

Did he just bow? Asian style? Takin this ‘oriental’ vibe a little too seriously, Peter. God, my mom is totally laughing inside right now. Not that any of this a big deal. Plus I’m mature. He’s not really attractive. I’m more attractive than him. Why do you think things like that? Shame on you. How is that relevant? Or objective?

“Right this way, third door on the right.”

“Okay Megan, go ahead lie face down, I’ll be back in a few minutes”.

Ha. Why does that sound dirty to me? Would it sound dirty if it was chick? What is wrong with you?

Okay but quickly now! Undress! Go! Go! Remember last time she just slipped back in the door, no knock, no warning. How do they know how long to wait? What if I’m slow? What if my sock won’t come off like right now? Hide your bra in your pants. Do I have time to fold? Do other people fold? What if he walks in and sees my boobs? Go! Quickly! Fuck folding your shirt–hurry!

Okay, I’m ready. I totally beat him. But how does he knooow? How do they know? Is it a set amount of time? 5 minutes? Less? Doesn’t feel like 5 minutes. Does he listen outside the door? I’m being very quiet. No fucking way he can hear me. I’m like a goddamn mouse. Maybe there’s cameras. Obviously there are no cameras. Even though it would probably be helpful. Like in dressing rooms trying to catch people who try on bathing suits without underwear. The places where you need cameras most, you can’t have them.

“Alright, are you comfortable? It’s not too cold in here?”

“Nope. I’m good”

Well hello man hands. My chronically single self misses man hands. Sad face. I’m immediately nicer now that another human is touching me. God. Cry for me. There should be a program that gives single people a free massage every month. The world would seriously be a much better place. Remember when you were a kid and said the first extravagance you’d ever have if you were rich is a live-in masseuse? Even your 11 year old self knew that massages are fucking amazing. Maybe I should write a blog post about this single people sadness – but then everyone would know –

“I really like your tattoos…If you don’t mind me saying so”

Hm.

“Thanks”

I could supply more information about my super awesome tattoos to make them even more awesome, like how each is from a different continent, etc. I’m obviously a self-named Badass and in a different situation would want to share that. But it’s relaxing time now so no talk. I don’t want to set a precedent for talking. Is that rude? Should I be friendlier? Do masseuses want people to talk to them more? Are they bored? Would I be bored? There is nothing worse than small talk. I would likely be sad if I were a masseuse and someone wanted to be chatty. I bet there are chatty people though. What should I do? Is it dickish to be so terse? Who cares. Didn’t George Costanza say something like this? I think he did. Damn I love Seinfeld. Seinfeld does apply to everything.

What do they think about all day long being quiet? Chandler’s knees.

Also, don’t look at my tattoos. Is it sexual? “Really”. “Really like”. It can’t be sexual though. This man is a professional. Don’t think so highly of yourself. This is how he has chosen to make a living because he has a special respect for the body or something. But why? God, who would want to touch disgusting people all day everyday? Naked people! And I bet a lot of people who come in here are old and wrinkly or hairy or full of weird skin things. Or smelly. Jesus. If I were a masseuse, I would be glad for a youngerish chick client. No wrinkles. No hair. Minimal nasties. What about a regular youngerish dude? If I were a masseuse, would I be turned on? Doubtful. It’s not the same for women. Rubbing my hands on a stranger dude, even if he were cute, eh. But dudes are so much more easily turned on by images. Porn, hello.

But how do they separate the sexual part from the job part? Like, if you’re a dude masseuse, do you give your girlfriend sexy massages? Where do you draw the line then? How do you not confuse sexual massage with professional massage? What if you got a boner? Dude, seriously why would you be a male masseuse. It’s a risk every time you walk in a room. Just fraught with difficulties. Laura’s sister slept with her massage therapist. How does that even happen? People be crazy.

And if your boyfriend was a massage therapist, would you have jealousy issues? Would it be bothersome to think of him rubbing oil on some girls all day? (Even though it’s probably gross people 90% of the time). Would it be a decent trade-off to have a boyfriend who rocked at massages? I think it might be.

Okay, shush. Relaxing time. Enjoy the massage Megan. Quiet your mind. Shhh.

Oh hey, that’s an elbow. Eee. And a hairy arm. Ew. Haaaaairy arrrrm. Aaaand we’re not thinking about it. Concentrate on something else. What’s going to happen to the characters in your book? Hairrrry. No we’re NOT THINKING ABOUT IT. Are Archy and Gwen going to get back together? Does Chabon – ohmygod, full arm contact! Calm down. Calm down. Men have hairy arms. That’s just how it is. You like hairy men over non-hairy men. Relax. He’s not dirty. He doesn’t smell. It’s okay. Ew ew though. STOP THINKING ABOUT IT. But it’s oily too! OILY AND HAIRY. Please, next thing. Next thing please.

Where did he go? This fool is like a ninja. They all are. How are they so stealthy. They must practice. No fucking way people are just born quick and quiet like this. I bet there’s a course on it in massage school. Are there special quiet shoes? What shoes is he wearing?

Arms time. And a music change. Ooh. Now we’re on a snowy Himalayan mountain. Wind sounds. And snow sounds. And a pan flute. What are snow sounds anyway? How would I explain that to someone? Why does this shitty music conjure Mt Everest imagery? Or the snowy mountain world in Super Donkey Kong? Ooh I want to play. Maybe this weekend. Where’s the Nintendo?

Shut up your miiiiiind. You are wasting relax time. Shut up.

Where is his body now? Is this guy squatting? What’s goin on here, how come I can’t tell if he’s on the floor? He must be. Where is his body? Stealthy-ass fuck. That would be hardest part. I’m too awkward and clumsy, I could never sneak around the way they do. I don’t even know where this dude’s body is!

Oh, onto the hands. Hands time. Boooo I haaaaate hands time. Even when it’s a chick. Holding hands with someone is so intimate. Or something. Ew “intimate”. Erm. What is wrong with you? I’m unloved that’s what’s wrong. That’s all. No but really, it feels weird. Oh oop, yuck. Oh there it is. Noooo. Oh god this is so much worse with a dude. All oily and shit. With a girl I can definitely distance myself from it. Why is it different with a dude? WHAT IS UP. Yuuuuck. Be done. Be done. My hand is so tiny in his. Stop just holding it! DO SOMETHING. Groooosss.

Oh thank god. Annnd now we’re in Asia! Asian flute. Pan flute? Does that even make sense? Did pan flutes originate in Peru or? South Park? How did they get to Asia? Remember that Ecuadorian pan flute band you saw at the train station in Seoul? That was a fun day.

“How’s are you doing?”

“Very good. Thank you.”

“Okay, I’m going to have you turn onto your back now.”

Oh good, watch me struggle to turn over while you hold the blanket and I try not to show you my boobs. Don’t judge me. I feel like a whale turning over. Don’t waaaatch me. I wouldn’t watch anyone turn over if I were him. I would be embarrassed for everyone.

Man. I liked it better face down. HA.

Underwater music. I see fish. And swaying seaweed. And a scuba diver. Scuba Steve. Adam Sandler. NO.

I’m all exposed now. Ew. Don’t look at my face. Am I drooling? I feel like I’m drooling. Gross. Don’t look. This is almost like playing stiff as board, light as a feather or whatever the hell that game was. Somebody all up around my head and neck, reaching under my shoulders. Breathe Megan. Breathe! Well I’m not breathing because I don’t want to breathe in his breath! But is his breath bad? Not that I can tell I guess. I don’t really even think he’s breathing. How is that possible? I think I was impressed by the same thing last time I got a massage. What the hell? This must be a course in massage school too. Or like, oh sad, what if you were doing a massage for critique and that was one of your failures? Your breath smells, F. You have BO, you might consider another profession. Fifty percent of this job is learning to be inoffensive and undetectable with your human sounds and smells.

Face massage hm? Okay I’ll take it. Wait, just kidding ew. The only time someone puts their hands on your face this way is if you’re makin out. Eeeee no. It feels good but it’s creeeeeepy. Oh stop it Megan. Just relax. It’s not weird, this dude is just doing the job you are paying him to do. But he’s cupping my face! And now fingers in my hair. Do you think he’s looking at my face? God that’s weird. Don’t look at my face.  His face is like a foot from my face. Oh god, I must look like super creepy when you pull on both sides of my face like that. I wouldn’t look at the person’s face if I were him. If I did I’d probably laugh. How is he not laughing? He’s squishing it like play dough! Feels good though. Really good. Who can I pay to do this to me before I fall asleep every night? God I need a boyfriend.

“How are you doing?”

“Great”

“Mmm. Unfortunately it’s time for us to wrap up.”

Your whispering is creepy.

“Okay, sounds good. Thank you!”

How many minutes do I have to get dressed and get my shit together before he opens the door? Oh, hello noodle legs! Woo. Oh god, I look like I was run over. What did he do to my hair? Ugh, he was all up in this business. Bad bad. God, I look like I just got up from a 20 year nap. Hot. Shit I have to pee so bad! Where did that come from? Wow that JUST happened. Hit me like a truck. A pee truck. Bathroooooom.

“Well thank you for coming in, here’s my card, we have a special blahblahblahlahb……..”

PEEEEEE. I NEED TO PEE. Bathroooom??

“Okay, thank you very much too”

Wait wait. WAIT. Did I go to high school with this fool?? Seriously though… Peter..Peter..?

Disaster Relief

Nature was some bitch this week, huh you guys? What an epic short stick was drawn by New Jersey and the rest of the eastern seaboard/various, devastated Caribbean islands. By God, these are good days to be landlocked.

                                         And yet Florida….unscathed.

As in the wake of every tragedy, with a healthy dose of reality and appreciation for our boring old lives, those of us not directly effected return to the business of living. We feel the need to be louder, better – we’ve been spared and it would be ungrateful to waste this new shot at life. We must go to that Whigs concert we have tickets for on Tuesday night (LISTEN), and we must look a billion times more fabulous than originally planned, because life is short and we need to get laid. To this end, it is imperative we go boot shopping.

Boots! The bane of my existence and one true love! The object of my desire, the most unattainable of goals! See, I too am a victim of fickle Nature. Not the big disaster version of Nature, but the smaller, more immutable and damning Nature. The nature of genes.

Specifically, the dumb genes that gave me the calves of a Fernando Botero nude.

                                 JUST THE CALVES

 I say this objectively and without body-image anguish: my lower legs are extravagantly disproportionate to the rest of my body. It’s a fact. Imagine stomping around the mall with those tree trunks jammed under your knees, trying to find a pair of boots that will zip up beyond your ankle. Nigh impossible! Hence my years-long struggle, condemned to flats and gym shoes.To fulfill my post-Hurricane Sandy dreams, I had to continue the hunt, doomed though I may be.

So there I was at the store, moping down the aisles of boots meant for the spindly-legged, the trendy, the stiletto heel favor-ers. I feared the shame of trying on yet another pair, forcing the zipper up as far as it would go before it caught my flesh between its teeth and refused to move either up or down until it drew blood and I had to alert the sales staff. I dragged my cumbersome legs to the abandoned discount section of the store and collapsed. I hung my head, for how could anyone like me ever hope to find hot Angelina Jolie boots and wear them to a Whigs concert where the lead singer would fall in love with me and induct me into the band and we would tour the world together, royal ambassadors of rock n roll?

Lo! There, wedged beneath the rack of hideous Kardashian heels  was a large, boot-sized box. And within that boot-sized box, a pair of boots! Attractive, knee-high boots, grey, glorious. Could they…? Would they….?

Ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip. Right the FUCK up to my knee.

Holy. Balls. It was a Hurricane Sandy Day miracle!

Nature giveth (to me), and nature taketh away (from everyone else, that day). And so that night at the show, as I jammed in a crowd of 15 people (median age roughly 65) in my tall boots and short skirt making eyes at the drummer, I thought, “Let this be a sign unto you, New Jersey, Hoboken, NYC. You too can overcome the shit hand you were dealt. You can rebuild. You will be so much sexier this time. Nature can’t keep us down – let’s dance!”

Insensitivity, thy name may be Erin, but goddamn if you don’t look good in those shoes.