I had a massage after work tonight. But first, let me tell you about my day.
It started off well. I had a busy but very productive weekend, and the the apartment is almost finished. I have one more print to get back from the framer's, and then I can call it done. Yesterday I unpacked the last box. I think it looks great. Pics to come...one of these days.
I had a wonderful night's sleep, and woke up feeling refreshed and excited for the week ahead. The first half of the day went fine, but things fell apart a bit after lunch. We had a consultant come in to make a presentation to the team, but the guest user password I'd obtained for her didn't work, the a/v guy never showed to hook up the projector, and the handouts she'd FedExed me arrived an hour after she started. Then at 4:58 -- I swear! -- someone else I support called and said, "Hey, do you remember those documents I had you fax to the attorney in L.A.? I gave you the wrong fax number, can you re-send them?" Okay, so back to the files to pull them all out, unstaple, fax, re-staple, re-sort, and re-file. Meanwhile, 32 pages of confidential financial information have gone...God knows where.
So, yeah, I was feeling pretty excited about this massage. I had a gift certificate from the place I temped all summer long as a thank-you for my many devoted hours of patiently not surfing the internet. (Wink-wink.) It was about to expire so I had to cash it in.
As I was racing to the clinic, an awful thought occurred to me: what if the therapist was a woman? Not that it should really make much difference, but I'm just more comfortable with men. (Go figure.) Why hadn't I called to make a request? So as I pulled into the parking space, I said a quick prayer. "God, throw me a bone, here." (In truth, that's what I said...though as soon as the words escaped my lips I cringed.)
Inside the clinic there was a short, squat young woman sitting at the reception desk, and next to her, a young man in a blue medical outfit. He was about 6'3, olive skin, green eyes, black hair, and had arms like tree-trunks. Oh, mercy, I thought.
Yeah, my appointment was with the woman.
I think this was the first time a woman has seen me naked since my hernia operation in 1994. (Oh, well...Robin Byrd on the beach at Fire Island, but that doesn't count.) Yes, there was a strategically draped sheet, but I'm pretty sure that during the careful arranging she saw more than she needed to. I don't care; I'm not exactly bashful, but still it felt odd. I guess society has programmed me to be nervous while naked around women. (Good thing I'm gay!)
"Wow, it's the size of a softball!" she exclaimed, referring to a knot in my right thigh.
The massage was actually pretty good. I mean, it wasn't life-changing, oh, God, please don't stop, I need someone to carry me back to my car kind of thing, but I definitely felt better afterward.
Now that I'm home, the red wine is finishing where she left off. Ahhhhh.