A Little Touch Up, Perhaps? Massage Anyone?
So, it goes like this . . .
So I’m sitting at the spa, disrobing in the locker room.
Showing everybody my age via the slight little sag (and I am really not going to admit this sag thing) in my heart-shaped-best-damn-ass-this-side-of-the-Mississippi derriere . . .
Yeah boys, relax now, I was in the ladies locker room at my gym.
I say Spa, because it makes it sound really nifty and special, however the fact is is that it’s just an offshoot of my gym. So yeah, I am surrounded by aging sweaty female bodies that just got out of a “Body Blast”ing 50 minute core bending, arm-pit stinking, boob bouncing meltdown class.
Just try to envision this, there are women all around me that are “dropping-trou” and flopping breasts, with relaxed waists and cellulite butts. Sweatin’ with the oldies . . .
Hey, as I look around and compare my (like I said my heart-shaped-best-damn-ass-this-side-of-the-Mississippi) derriere . . .
Against the other sweaty or pre-sweated asses . . .
I think to myself, I say . . .
(Come on, say it . . . if I am thinking to myself, and I say something . . . come on . . . God, have I got to do everything here?)
Holy crap, okay . . .
And, I think to myself, I say . . . “Self . . .”
(See how easy that was?)
I do that a lot.
So, as I look around at all of those younger and older “Sit Upons” I say to myself, I say, “Self — Hey! I’m feeling pretty good about myself! My ass is looking pretty fine!”
However, after comparing my goods to those others in the locker room . . . well, let’s just admit that maybe a thong shouldn’t be sold to women that could qualify for AARP.
I think that just about draws the line there, and even in semipublic situations a thong on women that age is just a whole bowl of throng wrong.
Should I have to be subjected to such sights? I ask you?
I . . . Mois . . . Me . . . Belle . . . don’t even wear a thong when I am going to gym. When I know that I might be viewed by someone else, even though as I said before, I do have the heart-shaped-best-damn-ass-this-side-of-the-Mississippi) . . .
I think there should be standards set.
I have eyes don’t I?
I am not an animal!
I can discern objects that are scary to me!
Well, so I finally get my robe on in preparation for my massage. I finally hide the hide and resume coverage of my heart-shaped-best-damn-ass-this-side-of-the-Mississippi.
Ah . . . the comfort of a loose fitting robe. It hides all the demons, doesn’t it?
Well, like I said, they do treatments at my spa.
When I say treatments, I say and mean “Fluff Facials” (meaning we’re not going to be digging out those huge ugly pores on your face, Darling! You will have to go somewhere else for that) and some pretty exceptional massages.
They only service ladies at my gym, boys. So, you’re not going to be able to apply for a masseuse position.
Sorry. (Wink. Wink.)
So, let’s be frank here — I only go for the massages.
However you want to look at it, I am paying a professional to touch me all over my body . . .
Hmmmmm . . . sounds naughty, doesn’t it?
Well, I guess if I were switching teams, then it would be . . . naughty.
But, you boys dig that whole girl touching girl thing, don’t you?
Hate to burst your proverbial bubble heads . . . but, I just go there to be manipulated . . . uh, my muscles, that is.
My kids have the other manipulation thing down, man.
Let’s face it, I am here to escape.
So, this is just a touch me, I need to be frigging touched and de-stressed, and know that I am not going to wind up have sex at the end of it . . .
Just relax . . . no energy . . .
I go in the “Relaxation Room.”
Where, I might add, everyone has a Goddamn robe on, thank you very much.
How can I relax if someone’s thong-split cheeks were sticking to the fricking chair I want to sit in?
No. Holy crap, right?
Thank you dear God, everyone’s got a nice little “spa” robe and and everyone is hidingthere questionable little asses . . . just like mine, my heart-shaped-best-damn-ass-this-side-of-the-Mississippi, is safely snuggled below the confines of the loose-fitting robe.
A little hot tea, perhaps?
Well, I don’t mind if I do!
A little dried apricot or almonds to quell that scant bit of hunger?
Well Darling, how thoughtful . . .
Okay, who the hell am I talking to?
These are the conversations that go on in my cornered little brain . . .
Hot tea, apricot, almonds. How charming, thank you!
Chomp. Sip. Swallow. Almond. Crunch. Swallow. Choke. Wrong Pipe. Hacking . . . coughing. . . choking. . . Help! Goddammit! Stop frigging relaxing and hit me on the back . . . finally. Down. Swallow. Breathe. Aaaaah. Sip. Swallow. No more frigging almonds. Aaaaah. Hot tea. Sip. This is the life. No?
Relax . . .
Nice. Reclined. Sip.
“Belle . . .” she calls to me.
Yes, my dear, Karen. Yes, it is she that is calling me . . .
Save me. Touch me. Thank you, my dear Karen.
Slowly, and with reverence, I walk to the massage room.
She is my angel for the next 50 minutes. And, I will show her my appreciation at the end with a very large tip.
Insignificant to what she has given me. An hour of . . . bliss?
Yes, I walk slowly to the room . . . and take off my robe . . .
The next 50 minutes are mine . . . I paid good money for it. So, let me shut the door and get on with it!
So, Y’all come back now, Y’hear?
S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
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