Dear witty’s body:
WTF? I’m finally going to have some fun this weekend and you decide to make me so miserable I could barely watch “The View” today. I mean, I’ve been aching for years months and yes, the fibro has been particularly bad in October, but what is with this sudden severe allergy thingie. My eyes are so red that I look like I just drank an Alaskan logger under the table. Again, WTF? Why now? You know I’m going to see my best friend in a nearby city while he’s touring in a Broadway show.
I had thought I was taking care of things yesterday. I got my first massage in like almost a year for some pretty fierce sciatic nerve pain. Considering I used to see Married Guy every week or two, that is a long haul without a guy massaging your ass. Or anything. Married Guy has been gone for over four years now. Hard to believe. If you ever make friends with a masseuse, first make sure they’re not married and second treat him as nicely as possible because the benefits are plentiful.
So I went to a new masseuse yesterday. I’ve been to about 5 different ones since my Glory Days of OPM (own personal masseusedom). Some have been great, some have been truly terrible….like the guy who insisted that I put my leg up over his shoulder while he massaged my kneecap, making me feel somewhat (cough) “exposed”.
Yesterday though was my first gay masseuse. He kinda looked like he had just fallen out of an episode of “Project Runway”. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. My best friend is gay, so snap. But he had me so tightly tucked into these thick, luxurious sheets and blankies on the table, I even wondered if he was going to make skin contact. Because everytime I had to give him a body part, he’d spend like three minutes tucking everything in with the precision of an OCD nanny. tucktucktucktucktucktuckTUCKTUCK.
OK, Martha Stewart, I think the sheets are tucked in now.
I don’t mean to say there was anything wrong with the massage. It was perfectly nice, although once he got to my calves, he squeezed the wrong muscles. You know, the ones that walked 12 miles this week and like OWWWWWW(screaming in agony)WWWWW!! I tried to be brave, but calf muscles are particularly nerve wracking. So then he stopped. I was laying there face down with this guy just standing there. I couldn’t see what he was doing. Was he “gettin’ down” with the zen massage whale music? Why do massage therapists always think that Anya and whales having sex is a good musical choice? Anyways, I was like, hello? Anyone there? Hello! I could still see his ghetto Soho white sneakers through the hole in the table. He later told me he was curing my legs with Reiki. Oh! Drrrr!!
I was super relaxed afterwards. I usually walk around all hunched up like comedian Richard Lewis. My body isn’t used to that. “Mark” even hugged me afterwards. Ha. Married Guy used to do that too! Of course that was usually after a massage which included flimsy single sheets “accidentally” falling off parts of my body and him talking about explicit sex scenes from “The S0PRAN0’s”. Unfortunately I kinda fell for that at the time and still think about him everytime I get a massage.
I went to my art class afterwards. I was co-hosting with Charlemagne. I don’t think he believed that I zonked out when I got home from my massage. I haven’t had much energy since the Four Art Shows in Eleven Days thing. I have a lot going on though. I am thinking, considering, ok, preparing, ok, ummm, I think I’m going to go to the local university to get a bachelor’s degree in painting. I’ve already met with both academic and financial advisors. There! I spit it out. Why? Because what the hell else am I doing? Except possibly laying around on my bed with Guardcat in the sun wondering if having a life without purpose or love or large sums of money is really such a great way to spend the rest of my life.
Not surprisingly, the answer has always been a resounding “NO”, but my self esteem has always been so feeble and certain people in my life have always repeatedly told me, you’re mentally ill, that’s your life. THE END….that I never realized I didn’t have to listen to them and that what they were saying, probably wasn’t true or didn’t really matter.
I’m a lot more than that and I’ve been proving it the last couple of months. Going out and having art shows? WTF. Not everyone can have an art show! Have you? (and Art Gnome, you can’t play on that one!) I’ve been published hundreds of times. I’ve had art shows. I’ve had photos in museums and national magazines. Have you? I just think that being constantly told you’re mentally ill (i.e., not of value) by someone is probably the biggest disservice you can ever do to a person. They make it sound like a freaking death sentence. That’s just plain stupid. You’re put here for a purpose. And I’m tired of ignoring it and also tired of being scared of making mistakes. I went through some really extensive mistake making periods in my 40’s and I just sort of retreated for the last 5 years, not wanting to even ask for a Diet Soda at McDonald’s fercrissakes. But constantly falling back on the “What if’s” has really just been a sorry excuse not to have a life. If you make a mistake, you make a mistake.
So I called my doctor’s office this morning and told the receptionist what my ailments were. She said my doctor didn’t have any appointments today. I was really disappointed because I wanted something for what is either allergies or sinusitis before I leave tomorrow. So I slowly said, “Oh, ok” and then she says, “So can you come in today at 5:40?”
I always fall for that old “The doctor doesn’t have any appointments” thing.