There are two things in life I won’t do. Hard limit.
1. Take a cruise. Boats. Ocean. Deep water. Claustrophobia. Sea beasts. I don’t care how awesome Road Rules Semester at Sea or The Suite Life on Deck made it look. No. A million times over. If Waterworld became a real thing, it would be the second worst time ever that Waterworld became a real thing.
2. Get a massage. I have control issues with my body, and I dislike that I can’t control where people rub me in the incense hazed guise of relaxation. I’m not relaxed, I’m freaking out your going to rub my fupa.
Unfortunately, Andy has always wanted to do both of these things, and I have made if very clear that he has my blessing to do either, no hard feelings, it just won’t involve me.
So, Thursday morning, my alarm goes off at 6:15am.
Some days I have to scream upstairs at the kids to get up, other times it’s unnecessary because their tiny sweaty bodies are already globbed all over me breathing heavily into my personal air space.
That particular morning I woke up to find a giant hairy man snoring beside me.
Andy what the fuck, did you oversleep?
You’re going in late?
You got fired?!
Jesus, no. I called off.
Awesome. I was going to get so much done, you guys!
We woke the kids and got them dressed for school, lunches made, and Andy even volunteered to drive them, which meant, holla, no bra for me. So, while they all packed into the car and drove away, I celebrated in the kitchen, reading my email and eating the cold boneless buffalo wings leftover in the fridge.
I could do this because aside from working and painting the hallway, I had zero plans for the day. You see, I basically decide what to eat based on my day and how close I’ll be to a bathroom at any given moment. A writing day means sweatpants and my own bathroom, hence, cold spicy chicken for breakfast.
Andy walks in an hour later and gets in the shower. It’s weird, but then again, he isn’t off very much, and clearly doesn’t realize that when you aren’t around the kind of people with buttons and zippers on their pants, you totally don’t have to shower. But, he apparently has a routine, it’s adorable he wants to look nice for me, whatever, I made myself at home on the couch with my computer because, as we all know, Miley Cyrus hasn’t picked a wedding dress yet, and I’m obviously not the only person on the internet concerned about this?
So, he comes out of the shower and is like, hey you should take a shower because I have a surprise, and I’m like, dude, I’ve seen your surprise, and it’s impressive, but I have to work work this morning and I don’t feel like shaving.
Then he gets all pissy, because like all surprises (which, by the way, I hate), I’ve forced him into a corner and if he wants me showered and presentable, he has to tell me.
Dammit, I’ve booked us a couples massage, it’s a late Valentine’s Day thing, it was supposed to be a surprise.
And then I gasp, because he knows, he knows, I am very bad touch about the whole massage thing.
Andy no. Why would you do this, I changed my mind, we can totally have sex, I just- no, no this can’t happen.
The other night at dinner you said it sounded like fun when Mark and Jenelle said they had one.
Well, what was I supposed to say? Ew, that sounds horrifying I’d rather blow a disease infected hooker?
It’s too late, I’ve already paid for it, and we have to leave in an hour.
BUT I JUST ATE 10 COLD CHICKEN WINGS OUT OF QUESTIONABLY SEALED TUPPERWARE?!
He didn’t care. I had to shower. I had to shave my whole leg, all the way up. I had to show up wearing no make up or jewelry and try, super hard, not to crap on the table.
I wasn’t even mad when we walked into the place because I was way too wrapped up in my own panic attack. I’d save my anger for an appropriate time when I can misdirect at him more effectively.
We filled out forms, took our clothes off and climbed under the white sheets of two beds, side by side.
The xanax was kicking in, I was starting to feel… manageable. It was only 60 minutes, and I’ve faked enthusiasm for way longer than 60 minutes before… sorry all baby showers I’ve ever been invited to.
Two middle aged women come in and they turn on music that’s basically just depressed whales moaning at each other and turn the lights down. My lady starts rubbing my shoulders and it actually starts to feel good, but I’m getting, like, crazy hot. As she does her thing, beads of sweat start to run down my forehead and upper lip, and I’m realizing… bad things are afoot.
I got hot, clammy, my stomach started clenching into itself, and I had no idea what end stuff wanted to come out of, but she wouldn’t stop touching me and Andy paid so much money, I just had to get through this.
She was massaging my ass all, is this pressure okay for you or do you want more?
And as I laid there clenching, the teeniest tiniest little hiccup escaped it, like a small little whisper of like, greeting… or warning. Probably warning. I feel like we both just pretended it was a whale, and I was like, no I feel like this is the appropriate pressure at this time, this feels so great, all of it, all of it feels so great, this is the best day ever.
Hours later we were done and they left the room all, okay take your time coming out, because I don’t know, maybe people have sex in there after? I, on the other hand, leapt off the table and ran into the attached dressing room that happened to have a toilet, and… it was all over. Andy came in all concerned and a look of horror spread across his face.
What the hell is wrong!?
I don’t know, it must be all the toxins or something coming out of me, just please, throw that incensey thing in here and go.
We walked out of the spa dressed but pale, and when we reached our car, Andy leaned against the door and threw up.
We had the flu for four days. I can’t eat chicken wings for the rest of my life. And, I don’t think Andy will ever try and surprise me with a cruise. I’ll call this Valentine’s Day a draw.