The world is a weird place. I mean who in their right mind would eat discarded waste product made by insects (honey)? Who would create and maintain a website about marrying your own cousin (http://www.cousincouples.com/)? And what kind of massage therapist, goes to get a massage by another therapist and not shave her pits beforehand?
Yesterday I massaged such a woman – a fellow therapist who teaches at the massage school I graduated from.
While I was massaging her, she says;
Her – “You didn’t go to CCMT, did you?”
Me – “I did actually.”
Her – “You don’t massage like the people that went there. It’s very different. I like it.”
I never cared for CCMT. The teachers and students refused to wear shoes, and every person in my class had an emotional outburst at some point. Everyone except for me and this 18 year old girl who turned out to be one of the few people there I could understand.
This woman was older, very teacher-like in her ways as far as judging and grading me goes. She was nice, but not super nice and I heard from a friend that she doesn’t score high likeability points with people.
I was massaging her shoulder and had to move her arm away from her body in order to get a better angle of the muscles under her scap – and that’s when I saw the long, fetid hairs. They emitted an odor hard to describe – sour is the best word.
Me – What the fuuuuuck? Is this for real?
I said to myself.
Hairy legs are one thing – I don’t care if girls don’t shave their legs, but pit hair should be outlawed. Especially stinky armpit hair that’s all matted down in the little bungalow’s of a middle-aged woman getting massaged.
I heard that many teachers don’t shave their pits at CCMT – yet another reason I don’t care for the place. They also made fun of the franchise where I’m currently employed. Those stuck-up highbrow poser’s think they’re so great.
Anyway, I massaged her, she liked it and that was that.
Then I went dancing at Murphy and Scarlette’s and drank a few gallons of the beer they had on special – Miller light. It was fun, although I don’t remember much of it. I’m almost sure it was fun, but I’m not 100% positive. My feet were hurting and I couldn’t dance because of them, and I couldn’t play pool because I was way too drunk to focus on anything except on the dancing that my feet were too sore to let me do.
I woke up today on Holly’s couch still wearing my jacket. There was a half-eaten piece of bread laying on the coffee table that I vaguely recall belonging to me, and so I ate the rest of it, folded up the blankets and drove home.
I woke up at 3pm in my own bed. I have the oddest hangover cravings such as Klondyke bars accompanied with tomato juice. It’s gross now that I think back on it.
Now it’s 9:15 and I’m laying in bed doing nothing on this wonderful Sunday night.
It’s Sunday, so that means that I have Monday and Tuesday left for my days off, and then I work Wednesday, Thursday and Friday – and then I leave on Saturday morning for Savannah. One, two, three, four, five – five more days until I leave.
On Tuesday, I get to see Dave.