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07.31.2003 - 8:01 p.m.


Greasy, so very greasy right now. Yes, oily and slick, glistening in the summer sun, unable to cross my legs for slippage reasons. The ends of my hair are heavy and dark. A thick bright sheen collects in the crooks of my arms.

Ah, the sheer ooziness of the post-massage state. It's actually kind of gross. But I'm all relaxed and melty and flushed with endorphins, so who cares if I am also a buttered hunk of Crisco.

I've fine tuned the weekly Workplace massage lately. Val, the freakishly strong masseuse, specializes in a deep tissue sort of massage that I was enjoying but occasionally felt the urge to sob brokenly in a holy-balls-that-fucking-hurts way. I couldn't really predict what was going to hurt, either, so I'd be all settling into my happy place when OWWOWOW! would happen. I never felt like saying anything, though, because it seemed too princessy and wussy to whine about it.

One night Val joined us for post-work drinks, and she happened to mention that she really wanted people to tell her what they liked and didn't like. So the next time I had a massage, I asked if she could do lighter pressure. "A little lighter?" she asked, to clarify. "Um, a LOT lighter," I said, vaguely embarrassed.

And then I had The Best Massage Ever. Ever since, every part of the hour-long session feels marvelous and I can just completely zone out. The best part is, Val says it's a lot easier on her, so she actually likes when she has an appointment with me. That helps me feel less like a demanding spoiled brat. A little.

I've completely gotten over my nervousness about being naked at Workplace. The minute the door closes behind me I'm whipping off my clothes and snuggling happily under the covers. The only part that kind of sucks is how gnarly I look afterwards - rumpled, oily, makeup gone, hair awry. Like I've crawled out of an extremely satisfying weekend sex marathon, you know?

Wait, maybe that doesn't suck. Damn, I should have a cigarette prop just to complete the effect.

During a massage I try and just let my thoughts drift towards pleasantries. If something work-related creeps in, or some negative little annoying worry, I shoo it away with my metaphorical broom, whapping it on its metaphorical heinie. Today, I spent some time dreamily picturing the dog park. Oh, dog park, I love you.

It's a nice thing, this rub-down. Even if it does turn me into a glutinous human Exxon.


We're hitting the road tomorrow, back to that slog down I-5 to get to John's family cabin for the weekend. I went to the Bellevue library to look for a book on CD to listen to in the car, and all I could find was a Stephen King 12-hour-fest, From a Buick 8. I guess it's the one damn King book I haven't read, so what the hell, we'll give it a shot.

I also ended up checking out (non-audio) Palahniuk's Lullaby, which I'm jazzed about reading. And By the Shores of Gitchee Gumee, by Tama Janowitz. I keep reading her books, and I don't know why. She's got a style that both repels and attracts me. I think I stay with them because they're so dialogue-heavy, which I tend to like, but she cakes every word with so much metaphorical grime it's like I want to take a bath afterwards.

Anyway, have a lovely weekend!

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5 comments so far.

I have moved. - 1.03.2005
Obviously, a work in progress. - 12.27.2004
Happy holidays! - 12.24.2004
Listen, I am not a complete dick, it's not like I want Joe to die alone surrounded by cats or something. - 12.23.2004
Plus I am convinced my butt is extra big when it's upside down. - 12.22.2004

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