Wilma cashed in her mother's day prezzie {thanx much, DemonSpawn, for being my irritating, furry demonic child} & got an hour long massage today. It was a wonderful, relaxing hour.
Normally when I go for any sort of "spa" treatment ~ pedicure, massage, waxing ~ I chat up a storm with the esthetician, stopping only to take a breath. I strive to be my most charming, my most witty, my most entertaining during these situations. For some reason, mayhaps my lower class up-bringing, I have a really hard time having somebody "serve" me.
I have always maintained that you can tell a lot about someone's true nature by how they treat those in the service industry. I chat with tellers, wait staff, bus boys, bartenders, the hotel concierge, cab drivers. I went out of my way to make the security girl guarding the washroom at The Cult concert laugh, telling her a joke every time I went in. {This was no easy feat, as I currently estimate my bladder to be the size of a candle wick & made frequent trips.} I try to assuage my guilt at having somebody serve me by ingratiating myself to them, in fact, going over-board in my attempts to befriend those around me.
This time, I let my guilt take a holiday. I just shut up & lay there & enjoyed it. It has been quite some time since I has a massage {months & months ago} & I needed all the concentration I had in me to remain relaxed. I don't think she really cared. I'm sure she was happy to just get in, do her job, & get out.
Small talk is exhausting.
The continuing saga of a quack who's gone to the dogs...or cats, as the case may be.
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"Do not think of knocking out another person's brains because he differs in opinion from you. It would be as rational to knock yourself on the head because you differ from yourself ten years ago." Horace Mann