Touch My Body

A few weeks back, my in-laws gave me a gift certificate for a maternity massage at Gene Juarez. First of all, best present ever! Secondly, I can’t believe it took me so long to make the appointment, but I finally got around to scheduling my massage for this week.

Maybe it’s just me (I’m guessing it’s just me) but scheduling a massage makes me more anxious than anything else. Among the many questions in my mind were:

Question: Do I have to shave?

Answer: The only thing worse than having to touch my State Puff Marshmallow Man body at this point would be having to touch my hairy SPMM body, so for my masseuse’s sake, I struggled to balance and reach my way down to my feet with the razor. Results totally not guaranteed.

Question: I am going to go Full Monty under my spa robe?

Answer: Due to my propensity to pee myself if I sneeze, laugh, cough or even lately, get kicked hard enough by a certain crotch parasite who will remain nameless, I initially was leaning towards keeping the lady garden locked up tight, but ended up letting the bits roam free (as they are meant to). I figured that if my masseuse pushed too hard anywhere, then it was pretty much her fault for any resulting massage bed stains.

Question: If going Full Monty, do I actually have to shave, you know, down there?

Answer: Yeah, I am SO not one of those women who are concerned (overly or not) about the status of their lady garden during pregnancy. First of all, even if I wanted to, I can hardly even reach the damned thing in order to get the pruning shears any where close.

Secondly, I have a philosophy: If I can’t see it, it ain’t there. Or more accurately, if I can’t see it, then I don’t give a shit what it looks like. I figure Mr. Bee would just be happy to see anything and I have convinced myself that my doctor has surely seen worse. Or at least I hope so…

The massage ended up being exactly what I needed this week, but I do believe it should be considered torture to force people to actually, you know, move and stuff after the massage. With all those soft and comfy pillows all propped up to make me comfy, I easily could have slept for a week afterward. And to be honest, I had to fight off sleeping during the appointment, if only to avoid the awkward reaction from the masseuse that surely would result from my newly acquired pregnancy symptom: snoring like Walter Cronkite with a deviated septum.

I’ve even woken up myself, yo.

And Bee.

And Mr. Bee.

Let’s just say that if Mr. Bee, of all people, is teasing you for snoring, you know there is a problem.

That guy sounds like a rusty chainsaw on a back-firing lawnmower trying to cut through a thousand geese dying of tuberculosis.

I’m sure I just sound like a princess sighing. Or, you know, like cute snoring like when a little puppy snores or something.

Song title: Touch My Body by Mariah Carey