I’d Rather Not.

A few weeks ago, my better half injured his back moving lumber around in the garage.  Heaving and throwing pieces too big to even fit into our garage in one whole piece.  Cue the chiropractor and professional massage appointments.

What?

Yes.  Of course I could have gone out to help him.  However, I was busy.

Too busy trying to throw up my small intestine for the twentieth time in 48 hours.  Thank you Norwalk Virus.  Down 6 pounds in two days.  Never before had I experienced so many dreams about lots of water and having my nipples pierced.

I was a little disappointed when I came out of my deliria only to realize I didn’t already have my nipples pierced.

Anyhow.  The man throws his back out and upon my recovery asks if I would rub some pain reliever into his back before bed.  The first two nights I was the Florence Nightingale of back pain relief.  I used my elbows, forearms, finger tips and heels of my hands….they were good massages.

Evidenced, obviously, by his squeals of pain and sighs of relief when I finished.

The third night, I finally broke down and said – out loud :

“I don’t know how people do this for a living.  It would drive me insane.”

The fourth night, I broke down and said, – out loud:

“Doing this every day would make my mind go numb.”

The fifth night came and being nearly out of my gourd, all I could say was “does this hurt?” as I poked around his back with my finger.  I was trying to find the sore spot.  This wasn’t going to be a ten minute rub down, these fingers were going to be on and off the knot like a sugar fiend licking down a carton of cake icing.   Fifteen seconds and counting.

If this was to continue, I was contemplating getting the animals involved….walk here.  Step over there.  Or I was going to have to pull “a Ross” from the show Friends and get out my toy trucks and salad spoons to do the massage work.

Which leads me to ponder other jobs in the world I simply couldn’t do. I would rather pick up elephant poop with my bare hands than perform any of the duties below.

Let’s ponder the other jobs in a spa or beauty salon.  One word….

Waxing.

I’ve been waxed.  Legalized S & M practice is more like it.

I couldn’t wax anyone.  You want to wax your what?  I don’t even think there’s hair there.   I don’t even know where that part is located.  Talk about having a private practice.  Some body part requests would simply cause me to faint.

I tighten up my black leather, knee high boots and straddle myself over the chair…..likely having to use some body weight to get the successful wax.

Oh, yeah, let me go ahead and get that nappy spot of hair off that __________!

>>>RIP IT OFF<<<<

Now, you’ll excuse me while I throw up and get a cold compress for the back of my neck.

Another job?  Pedicurist.

Nope. Not going to happen.

Thick, yellow, scaly toenails.  Not to mention possible fungus issues. Having to cut those things?  I know you’re tearing up the carpet at home, scraping the wood flooring – but damn.  Your dog called and wants his nail clippers back.  Shit, I don’t even think a hack saw and grinder is going to work on those things.

Not to mention the unidentifiable stuff that has been stored up under there for weeks, months, years…..which is going to come flying out and hit me in the eye.  I’ll end up loosing my eyesight from a serious pink eye infection due to your toe jam surprise.

Could you please pass the fully contained HAZMAT gear with facial guard?

Feet….with the tough heels, hard corns, stinking bunions and flaking skin.  It’s not right.  Seriously,  I think it’s nature’s way of trying to reverse evolution and get us to return to the ocean as fish.  I swear that woman had half a fin on the side of her foot.

Lastly, quite a few spas offer showers.   All I have to say is : drain hair.

Not doing it.

I just threw up a little.

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s