A Pampered Vortex 10
Sometimes I have trouble shutting off my mind. Such was the case yesterday. Instead of melting away into a viscous puddle under the very capable hands of a masseuse (a four month old birthday gift–the massage, not the masseuse), bizzare thoughts lurked at the periphery of my awareness. How else to diffuse those than a Vortex 10 List? Sounds like more fun than drowning a novel’s worth of toxins with Evian.
10 Random Thoughts on a Massage Table:
1. Please don’t match me to the guy in black scrubs that looks like a cross between the blond guy from Simon and Simon and Lurch. Could someone have pity on this guy and give him a detoxifying treatment? The smacked-out rings under his eyes haunt me and not in a romance novel kind of way, either.
2. Dear God, is someone butchering that exotic bird in the distant meadow?
3. Seriously, was that just a karate chop to my left buttocks?
4. I saw this move on COPS once to apprehend a suspect, only there wasn’t a pan flute soloist in the background and I’m not wearing a t-shirt that says Mess with me and you mess with the entire trailer park.
5. Did she just put the hair clip she used on me back into the same drawer I saw her pull it out of? Sweet Barbicide, where are you?
6. Apparently shading in the feet on the pre-massage questionnaire “troublesome areas” means avoid like leprosy. No wonder she’s overcompensating by working tension from my collarbone. Does anyone have collarbone tension?
7. I painted my toenails Sparkling Nectar for this? What’s the Chinese translation for “A kingdom for my feet! I wore the cruel shoes today!”
8. Is the overly-loud second hand on the clock meant to be a relaxing rhythm to get in touch with my heartbeat or a cosmic reminder I could have written 500 words in the time it’s taken her to turn my scalp into a relaxed greaseball?
9. If she reused the hair clip, what of the sheets?
10. Why does my middle finger lift when she rubs the writerly tension from my forearm?
I’ve had six massages in my life, but they’ve all been gifts. Were it left up to me, I’d have given the money to the guy that stands with a sign under the interstate overpass in hundred-degree heat. Okay, maybe I’d have kept the one from the Brazilian guy on the ship in the Atlantic Ocean, but that’s all. Romance writers have to master the concept of haunting eyes, right?
What’s your favorite thing to do to relax?