Rub Me

Every 6-8 weeks I change my routine at the gym. It’s important to work different areas of your body and it also helps to combat the excruciating boredom that is inherent in exercising. I design my workouts so that I put forth the absolute minimal amount of effort. I barely break a sweat. I just want to be healthy and eat an occasional Hostess Ho-Ho without penalty. I’ve never cared much about body building or any of that crap.

The unfortunate byproduct of a new routine is a whole new set of aches and pains. The remedy for that is a massage from the delightful Kelly. It use to be the delightful Jenna, but she unceremoniously dumped me a few months ago. Kelly isn’t quite as effective a masseuse as Jenna was, but she makes up for it in cuteness. Think that doesn’t count? Well, then, you don’t understand the psyche of men. Especially married men.

Can you imagine being a masseuse? Lord. You’re locked in a room with someone who, although is in the process of being pampered, spends an hour complaining (especially the men, according to Kelly), it looks exhausting as hell and god forbid you get someone who has hygiene issues. From a client’s standpoint, I have to say that it takes an incredible leap of faith to remove all your clothes for a complete stranger with whom you might or might not have chemistry with. It took me a while to become comfortable doing it, but I’m happy to report that I’ve gotten past my initial hesitation. Yea, right there. That’s where I hurt the most.