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Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Confessions of a Back-Rub Ho
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 pester
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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