2005-02-13 @ 1:30 a.m.
I’m under this extremely delusional misconception that because today was my birthday, that everyone should probably genuflect when I walk by them in stores and/or shield their eyes from my extreme beauty or at least do SOMETHING proclaiming my presence in their sorry lives. Is this wrong? Perhaps, but I’ve always felt that birthdays are extremely important. They are, after all, the anniversary of your presence on earth.
Like if I hadn’t been born 47 years ago at 6:36 p.m. in Miami, Florida today, you wouldn’t be reading this. And how sad would that be? Yeah, I know...there, there. I realize you don’t have a life either, if you’re stuck reading diaryland entries about a delusional misanthrope on Saturday night. The thing is, we’re all important, and why not celebrate that? I’ve been kicked in the ass pretty good for much of my life, but hey, I still think the crowd at the mall should part, when I’m walking through them. I may chuckle ironically, thinking....these losers, if only they knew how really unimportant I am. But I let them have their feelings of extreme ecstacy as wittykitty
So what does this have to do with anything? Nothing actually, because this day unfurled pretty much as I feared it would. Uneventful. Sad. Lonely. Because, you see, my usual birthday coordinator and feel-good guy is no longer on the job. Married Guy. For the last three years, while my mom was usually off having her fake heart attacks because it appeared that her daughter (me) might be getting attention on her birthday, Married Guy had taken over the arranging of birthday festivities for me. He had made my last three birthdays fun, giving me loving massages, gifts, parties, cakes, as well as the secret weapon. Having it at his house with THE FAMILY. The family I wanted to be a part of. The family who liked and cared about me (except for wifie of course). It was really the only time in my whole life, anyone had ever done that for me, because I would say about 95% of my adult birthdays have been spent alone.
Oh and did I mention how I have this fixation about how important I think birthdays are? And how much I want people to share them with me? And how much I need people to say we’re glad you’re here? I guess its because I never got much of that growing up. My mom was always the star of my birthdays for some reason. Not sure how that happened. I mean, other than the fact that she gave birth to me. So kudos for that.
So that was why I originally wanted to go to NYC for my birthday. I knew my gay friend “G” would lavish attention on me. And I’d get to do things I normally don’t do. And big fusses would be made. And I really wanted that to happen. But then the car thing happened, and all the money went to Napa Auto Parts instead of the various venues around Manhattan. Damn. I really needed that.
But I decided to give it the old college try today. I was, after all, going for my first massage in over 4 months. My God, that’s almost a half a year. My body was quivering with
I got to the massage office early and its a good thing, because as I was driving up a steep snow strewn driveway along side the building, my car got stuck half way up. I hadn’t gunned it hard enough and suddenly I was spinning around in the middle...not going up and not coming down, just fishtailing side to side like a lizard caught in a trap. And naturally that freaked me out as I was trying to remember which way I’m supposed to turn the steering wheel when that happens. And this was really putting a kink in my timeline. Damn. I finally got out of my car, locked it and went into the building. I intended to go tell the massage therapist I was there, but was stuck on a ski slope out in the driveway, but I met up with two janitor guys. I told them of my dilemma and they came out with me and attempted to push my car from behind. I was scared my car was going to slide backwards crushing them, plus once again I was getting all confused about which way to turn the wheel when the car starts fishtailing. I finally asked the older guy if he could just get in the car and do it for me. He tried to get up the hill and I think wore off about 4 inches of tread on my tire as he spun like I did. He finally decided to just back down the hill and go up the driveway on the other side of the building. You know, the one that had been plowed...witty!! So off he went and then he finally reappeared on the other side. Yay! I thanked him and ran inside.
So I met John after filling out some paperwork and we went into his massage room which was huge. It even had a fireplace, which seemed so out of place in an office building housing CPAs and lawyers. John was probably about 55 years old and Eye-talian and I noticed almost immediately that he was hard of hearing. Because every question he asked me, I’d answer and he’d say “What??” And hey, I was speaking plenty loud, old man. (Oh wait, he’s not that old. He’s only 8 years older than me. Eeek!) So he finally left the room, I got undressed, got under the sheet and he came back from his secret spy room where the massage room video cameras were beaming back images. Oh wait, that was at Married Guy’s place.
He asked if I minded deep tissue massage and I said no and he started running the ball of his hand down my spine. Oww. But I didn’t say anything. My body hurts all the time anyways, maybe this will help. But then he started talking and basically he never stopped. I heard the name of every single muscle in entire body and where it was connected to and whether it was extended or contracted....and witty, you have to relax....and the muscle on the left leg is connected to the ab muscle on the right...and witty, you have to relax....and your butt muscle is contracted, and witty, you have to relax....and your muscles are like piano wires, and witty, you have to...oh, by the way, your right leg is shorter than your left leg.
Talk about being traumatized. Almost thought I was going to have to call “A”s emergency number to discuss this, since I was under the impression that I was perfect.
As the massage slowly progressed, he kept telling to trust him and to, for instance, let my head fall into his hands. And then when I wouldn’t, he would take my whole head and violently crank it to the left or right saying, “Did you feel that transition?” When he got to my feet, I was very excited. I love getting my tootsies massaged. After ass massaging, that is my favorite thing in the whole freakin’ universe, but when John started playing this little piggie went to the market, this little piggie went to the farm, he yanked every single toe until they made a loud cracking noise and then he told me the reason they cracked was because I was standing incorrectly.
He also went places that Married Guy never went. He massaged my abdomen for instance. Married Guy had only done that once and it had been very delicate and nice. This guy did it so hard, he reminded me of those weird Indian healer guys who can supposedly reach into your abdomen and pull out a pancreas intact without making an incision. He did put his hand up between my breasts briefly (they were covered), but everything was done so quickly and roughly, Lord knows, there was not an ounce of pleasure involved. But I think the weirdest part of the massage, was when he sat on the edge of the table and insisted that I sling my leg up over his shoulder.
I was very apprehensive about that, not because there was anything sexual about it, but because, well, my body doesn’t go in that direction. But he basically wouldn’t take NO for an answer and was pulling my legs apart like I was some Thanksgiving turkey, trying to have me keep my knee straight as I was trying to put it up on his shoulder. And then he did a fast, intensive massage deep into the thigh region, like up near the Garden of Eden, and at that point, I really didn’t even know how I felt. Ok, maybe I did. I felt like a piece of human Origami paper. I was in fact, not enjoying myself at all. I was frustrated because he couldn’t hear anything I was saying. I was a little upset that he was being so rough on my painful body and was bending my arms backwards like some kid torturing a frog they found in the yard. He also talked non-stop and told me to relax about 97 times (Married Guy would never exceed 3 times). And he kept asking me that stupid, “Did you feel the transition?” thing. No. Not unless you’re talking about the Me-Slipping-Into-a-Pain-Coma transition.
He finally finished and then had the nerve to tell me how to get up off the massage table after he left. I did so, gingerly and then looked at my watch. My appointment was supposed to be for an hour massage, but here it was an hour and a half later. Now in Married Guy’s massage room, that would have been groovy, since I always liked having his soft, tender man hands on my ass, but in the Massage Nazi’s room...owwww! Also I was supposed to meet my mom for my birthday lunch at 12:30, but here it was already 12:40. I was supposed to call her around noon, when I was originally supposed to get OUT of my massage. Shit. So I asked the Massage Nazi if I could use his phone. Of course, I had to try and squeeze a word in edgewise, because he was still talking. Talking about his obese cousin who had broken his hip and died. When I got ahold of my mother, she was annoyed that I was nearly 45 minutes late calling. I explained that the massage ran longer than it was supposed to. Massage Nazi, by the way, was still yacking. Not even sure if he was aware I was on the fucking phone.
After I hung up, he wanted to teach me how to stand so that I wouldn’t put any undo pressure on my leg muscles. Because you see, I have bad posture. Oh, and I’m also a gimp, you know, with that one leg shorter than the other. So he stood in front of me, showing me how to stand, with my eyes trained of course, on his penis area. Because that was the secret. How far apart the legs are at where they’re attached to the body. And then he turned around and asked me if I knew which was the correct way to stand by the position of his butt muscles. Ummm, no. So then I had to stand there and gaze at his old man butt, as he showed me various configurations of butt standing perfection. And did I feel slightly stupid standing there looking at this old guy flexing his butt muscles in the middle of an office with two wire haired terriers looking on? Yup. Definitely. But what can I say. I have this awesome power over old men. Whenever I get around them they just want to show off their Attributes to me. Right, Zenshrink?
So I kept creeping closer and closer to the door as he kept talking. I knew I had to get back to my house so that I would be there when my mom got there. He then said, “Oh wait a minute” and he turned around and handed me a Valentine’s Day gift bag off his desk (probably his wife’s gift) and handed it to me. I thanked him.
me...almost to the door....
And then he kept talking, saying something about auras and chronic fatigue syndrome
me....almost to the door...
And then again he said, “Oh, wait, you should really drink some water after a massage.” And he disappeared around the edge of the office and came back with some bottled water. By then I had managed to open the door part way and was ready to
When I got home I looked in the heart-decorated gift bag. There were chocolates, a decorative bottle of body soap, a calendar, and a white nylon body scrubber thingie wrapped in pink tissue paper. Obviously a door prize for the throttling I took on the massage table.
And then I began to think about how I used to feel after I left Married Guy’s place after a massage. It was usually somewhere between idyllically happy (except if I was pissed at him about something) to downright blissful. He always had such a delicate and loving touch. It was way better than clonopin. I even wondered, in all my massive insecurities, if he gave such loving massages to everyone else. Probably witty.
But after today’s massage, I felt like I had just tumbled down a rocky mountainside and had bruises from every single rock I had tumbled over. I actually felt more sore coming out than going in. Great! And I had just spent half of my miniscule paycheck on that? Grrr! So I guess finding a massage therapist will not only be an expensive proposition, but also be a lengthy one. I was so distraught by my experience tonight, that I had a very strong desire to write Married Guy an e-mail about it. And that was the first time in ages, that I had a weakness like that. But damn, I just felt so at the mercy of a rank amateur, when I had the best and didn’t even realize it. Damn. Damn. Damn.
So after the massage I hooked up briefly with my mother for lunch, which of course was all about her. I don’t even think she remembered to say Happy Birthday to me. I then headed over to Michael’s to pick up a new sketchpad with some birthday money I got. On the way home I stopped at a used book store and looked through their art books and saw a couple I wanted like the one about Wassily Kandinski and another one about Joan Miro. They were pretty expensive, but if I brought some of my old books in to sell, I might be able to defray the cost AND get rid of one of my ga-zillion books I’m not really interested in anymore.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty