Maybe there is no justification for wanton behavior, but I’m still gonna try. My life is mostly spent hunched over a keyboard, squinting at a monitor. Random spurts of running like a dork interrupt that. I also like to play like I’m buff and move furniture by myself, toss small children into the air, climb walls, or lift weights. Then I stick Therma-Care Heat Wraps all over myself and go back into turtle position and write some more. These wraps are way awesome and much better than herb bags, rice bags, and the lot.
So you see, sometimes I need a back-rub. Not want, need. You understand? There are baskets in the family room with assorted back-rubby gadgets in them. Some are battery run, some are wooden or plastic and some are hand held for when Dear Hubby says I’m breaking his hands. Which he says pretty much every time I
ask for a back-rub. He doesn’t like my comments of, “Oh come on, is that all
you’ve got?” and “Don’t be a little girl, put your back into it”. I consider
those cheering him on, you know, inspiring! Right?
|Back Rub Gadgets|
I try to rub my own back. You can really yank a muscle doing that. That is what that big hook thing is supposed to do, let you rub your own back, but it’s just not the same. I also tried rolling around on the back-rubby toys, but it doesn’t work, though it amuses guests. You can use the corner of a wall in a pinch, but same deal, nothing beats real hands.
Back when the residents of Spooky Hill were being tormented by Evil Contractor, someone said, “I wouldn’t let him build an outhouse for me.” Other comments followed on how he wasn’t worthy to touch anything. I agreed, but with the caveat, “Well, I’d let him rub my back, but other than that he is useless.” Because frankly I was willing to risk it. Rear-end my car at a light? I’ll let it slide if you rub my back. Last week some soft-spoken Asian dude came up behind me while I sat in a chair, and started rubbing my back. Did I ask questions? Why? Who are you? Do you have a license to kill? Heck no. It didn’t matter, at that moment he was my best friend. The thing was he then offered to rub it for awhile for $10. Whatever, there’s my purse, rub.
|What's inside my purse|
Not that all back-rubbers are created equal, they’re not. I prefer a professional, but I’m chronically desperate. I currently owe Zeus several million dollars from all the times I said, “Hey, rub my back and I’ll give you a million dollars.” Zeus is my friendly neighborhood giant, and he gives an AMAZING back rub. Though he is no longer accepting checks. (And by the way Dear Hubby is okay with all this. He wouldn’t care if it was Jamie from the Outlander series, or even Mr. Darcy rubbing my back. If it gets Hubby off the hook, he’s good with it.)
I have been known to suggest a game of Back-Rub Masseuse with my niece. She gets all into it, too. I light a candle, turn spa music on, she turns on an electric blanket for me to lie down on, and she pounds away. At the end she charges me a dollar. It is not child labor! It is a game. We play Quelf too, it’s not like we’re playing Car Wash. Shut up.
We’re among friends here, so feel free to confess your weakness, and what lengths you go to for a fix. What makes you cheap? Chocolate? Free samples? Will you eat anything off a colored toothpick at the supermarket? The Glitter Globe Confessional is now open, and remember, what happens in The Glitter Globe stays on the Internet. Isn’t that cozy?
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