Thursday, June 21, 2012

You want me to do what?!

Ahh...massages. I sure miss them. Back in the day, when I still had a few extra dollars to fling about, I would schedule one every month. Now, mind you, these Breezy moments weren't booked in beautiful, 5-star Denver day spas. No, not at all. My monthly 90 minute get-aways were at a local club where I paid a membership fee; yet, I circled the dates in red ink and looked forward to them as though they were in the Cayman Islands. Nothing came between me and the strong, skillful hands of my masseuse. There were occasions; however, when I did throw financial caution to the wind and booked weekends at ritzy locations.

Yes, my dear friends and blog readers, it has been noted in some of the finer establishments, that once I entered the sacred doors of these childless and serene havens, I did not emerge until closing time. I've been reputed to spend an entire month's salary in a single day. Do I hear murmurs of, "shameless, sinful spending"? Yes, I believe I do. Do I give a rat's ass? Absolutely not. Let me explain.

I am - as my blog title implies - a lunatic, extremely stressed out, and oftentimes ready to "blow", meaning lose my mind to the chaos that is my life. So - I’m thinkin' - spending a wee bit of cash to bring a crazy dame to a blissful state back to her family may not be such a bad investment. Capisce? Also, my man, never complains because - let me just say - I always come home relaxed and ready for hot, passionate...oh, ahhh, umm - sorry, rated PG13 blog…moving on…

Now that I've shared these awkward thoughts with you, I'll continue to share a few more. The first being that I can't believe it took me so long to get on a massage table. I waited. I had my fears. I was - I will admit - embarrassed. Of what?? You'll see.

This blog is dedicated to all the men and women who are still missing out on one of life's greatest pleasures...getting rubbed, squeezed, and handled – while naked – by a perfect stranger.

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You want me to do what??

I've never made it a secret that I'm overweight, otherwise known to my sweet, autistic son, Austynn, as "fluffy". I prefer this particular f-bomb over the other word and you will often hear me refer to myself or others like me as “fluffy”. I think it's endearing. We do feel like marshmallows; so soft and pillow-like - not bony and hard. I love it.

This fluffy issue has always been one of the reasons which has kept me away from receiving a massage. It’s ridiculous now that I think about it; however, in my extremely overweight years I was intimidated to walk near a spa much less have another human being touch me other than my husband. At my heaviest weight, I was 347 pounds. My excuse was that I would break the table or disgust the clinician. So what? These were the type of excuses which brought me to that dangerous weight to begin with.

Today I'm much healthier. I have a better sense of self-confidence. There are still days when I look at my body and find things to criticize; however, I promptly tell that voice to stop and focus on something I choose to love instead. It gets easier each time.

When I was finally ready for this momentous event, I had worked myself into a frenzy over it. Eric and I were enjoying our first week alone without the kids since their adoptions. They were in overnight camps and my husband and I were spending time in a lovely Las Vegas hotel and spa. "Okay," I thought, "I'm going to do this." But then the worst imaginable thing happened - Eric went downstairs to gamble and I had a few moments alone with my thoughts...

"Geez, how is this going to be done?"
"Do I stay in my bra and panties?"
"Will she just rub my back?"
"Dear God in Heaven...should I have shaved all the way up to my ass?"
"OH NO! Will she rub my ass?"
"What happens if she is a HE?!
"Does, she, HE, IT rub my front? How does that work?"
"OH MY GOD, ABORT MISSION! ABORT MISSION!"
"No one can see my boobs! They'll faint! I'LL FAINT!"
"Oh, dear Lord! It's too late! My arm pits are sweating! My thighs are sweating! I have dry mouth!"

It was time to take the elevator up to the spa. By this time, I couldn't breathe. I was shaking and dripping with sweat. To the casual eye, it appeared I had just run a marathon outside in the 114 degree heat. I had no time to dry off before being instructed to change out of all my clothes and put on the thick, warmed robe the spa assistant handed me. Lovely, it helped me perspire even more profusely AND, one size fits all actually means - one size fits size ten and below. My sweaty left boob was squirting out of the robe like a wet bar of soap.

Once I entered the warm, cozy room (no one in spas believes in air conditioning because remember guests are size ten and below), I was told to disrobe and lie face down on the warmed bed (really?) where my masseuse, Alex, would be with me in a moment. Uh oh…Alex? Such a neutral name; she, him, it…

SHE! Thank GOD!

Alex was a sweetheart. She discovered immediately – I’m guessing by the profuse amount of sweat and my unshaven thighs - that I was a massage virgin and did an amazing job keeping my mind off of my possible gas bubbles and dripping nose. My only miscue was the fateful moment when she told me to roll over. Instead of rolling, I hopped. Big breasted girls should never, ever hop especially when not wearing a bra. This resulted in a boobie flapping noise so obnoxious that it was clearly heard over the room's lovely background music causing me extreme embarrassment. It was heard in the facial room next door because I heard giggling immediately following my flop. Large, sweaty breasts flopping together; a sound not easily forgotten.

I have some male friends who've openly shared their non-massage reasoning because they are extremely hairy and/or God forbid, they're horrified should an accidental erection occur during the event. As most of you know me well enough by now, I did not hesitate to take these concerns right to the source in order to get their opinions. These folks are professionals, so yes - all of these things have happened before; the periodic fart, ze mazzive schwanzstucker, the hairy dudes, these people have seen it all and have worked around it so to speak. Nothing shocks them.

As far as the hairy factor goes, my arms are pretty gruesome in their own right. I've farted twice and horrifyingly enough, both times they woke me up with a snort. Admittedly, I started laughing so hard it was all I could do not to fart again. Life happens. Guys, if you get an erection, consider it a tribute to their expertise, I'm sure they'll be impressed and if not, throw in a few extra bucks for the humiliation.

My worst experience? I had a dude once who was quite impressed with my ass. I never quite understood why my boyfriends and now my dear one loves my ass - but to me, it’s quite a phenom. This masseuse was no different. He worked it. The blanket pretty much became a non-factor. I’m not saying it didn’t feel good but to have a gay guy named, Marcus hanging out on my fannie making the sounds he was making...well, I think I left with more knots in my shoulders than I came in with.

Anyway, for all of you newbies whom I haven't completely freaked out - give it a try. It feels GREAT!