blog entry

Ever shave only ONE leg?

just before you got a massage from the new GUY?

Omigod!  Relaxing at home, just starting to read Chelsea Handler’s book, “Are you there, Vodka?  It’s Me, Chelsea,” I thought back on what a wonderful afternoon I’d had getting a massage from the new guy at Urban Nirvana.

Apparantly, since I made my post on “My Marital Infidelity,” several other women in the Charleston area ALSO wanted to go and see and feel just what a Jimmy, the most awesome massage therapist that is the next best thing to having an affair especially when you are mad at your partner, could do for them.  And Brian was also completely booked up; Brian the sculptor who also surprises with his double handed rounded the edges of your body perfect feeling.  Maybe my flirtationship with the boys and revealing their very special talents did the very thing I was hoping it wouldn’t do:  I couldn’t get an appointment with either one of them this month.

Or maybe they think I’m weird, in a creepy way, even though I’m not.

So, I agreed to see the new guy, Ray, at the downtown Wentworth location of my favorite Urban Nirvana massage spot, hidden in a old, dark, and quiet stable turned upscale spa.

Ray was pretty darn good.  He was excellent on working out the detail of the muscular strain in my upper shoulders and scapula (spelling?  shoot, anatomy was a very long time ago in my book). He was awesome with feet.  He even said people called him “the foot guy.” No, he wasn’t weird like that foot fetish weirdo that we’ve all run into in the mall or grocery store in the summer (you haven’t?  Try Columbia, they are swarming in Publix and Columbiana Mall). I was pretty satisified with my massage with Ray.  Not Jimmy, not Brian, but definately way above average and expecting a rerun on the table with him.

Snuggled in my cozy armchair at home on Folly Beach, legs stretched out onto the ottoman, I was feeling pretty excited about reading my new book. Yes, someone who makes fun of men and women and sex and screws up more than I do;  definately should have started reading Chelsea Handler’s books sooner.

I reached down to stretch my capri length cotton yoga pants a little longer on my leg, since I live in a sub-freezing refridgerator despite the sub-tropical temperatures outside due to the male dominance of the thermostat in my home, and I felt hair on my leg.  Huh?  I just shaved this morning.  I mean I shaved just minutes before I had my massage with the new guy at the spa.  I hadn’t shaved for two days because I was late for work yesterday morning because I didn’t want to get out of bed after drinking a bottle of champagne to celebrate the fact that my kids weren’t home and were out with their other dad and I finally had conjugal privacy. And I didn’t shave last night because I was going swimming this morning and I never shave in the morning because the salt water will sting the microcuts on your legs in the ocean.  So, I know I put a new razor in the shower early this afternoon and before I went to the spa, but now that I was thinking of it, I really don’t remember shaving BOTH legs.

I reached down.  I shouted out loud, to myself of course, “Oh, I missed a spot shaving.”  Then I felt down to my toes.  Shit!  I missed my toes. That is really embarrassing that I missed shaving one set of my toes, especially when Ray is “the foot guy,” and he probably does have a foot fetish and he definately noticed that I had hair on the toes of my feet.  Shit!

I reached up a little further than when I first reached down.  Yes, I definately missed a spot on my leg, too.  Shit!  I missed a whole LEG!  My whole entire right leg had 3 days of hair growth on them.  Considering my Heinz 57, maybe some English, some Scottish, some adoption, I definately had to have some Italian in there and 3 days of leg hair growth would put me in the running for the same amount of hair on my legs that the bald guy had on his chest who won “The Hairy Chest Contest,” on my last Carnival Cruise.  But he was drunk when he was auditioning.  I was sober. And I was hairy.

Ohmigod!  Did I shave both of my armpits?

I dropped down Chelsea to the ground and stood up, feeling deep into the underside of my winter parka to see if I had hair on either of my armpits.

Whew.  Thank God.  I did shave both of my armpits.

I ran to my husband and asked him to feel my hairy, unshaved right leg. “Is it really that hairy?  Do you think the guy noticed? Omigod, I am so embarrassed!”

Love my husband, Jack.  He answers, “Only if he was gay.  Or straight.  Otherwise, no.”