I like to think of myself as low maintenance. This always sounds like a good thing to be - the opposite, of course, of being a high maintenance pain-in-the-ass.
The reality is that I'm not low maintenance at all - I'm just a lazy bastard who can't be bothered to do what is necessary for basic upkeep.
Like manicures
And pedicures
And regular haircuts
And shaving (forget waxing)
And eyebrow wrangling
And buying clothing
And hiding the gray
And moisturizing
And conditioning
And drinking water
And exercising
And for the love of God, can we talk about massages? The mere idea of a massage haunts me like the horrible elevator-and-blood-gushing scene from The Shining. Fauxhawk got a massage to help with his post-smoking...erm...agitation and I was fascinated by how chill he was about the whole thing.
P: So...are you nervous?
F: No, why?
P: You're getting a massage!
F: Um...no.
P: I would be. (Ominously) I'd be nervous.
(Later)
P: How was it?!
F: It was really nice.
P: But did someone touch your butt?
F: What?!
P: You know, did they touch your butt...like during the massage?
F: No!
P: Jesus, because that's what really scares me - some stranger touching my butt. Freaks me out. The first and only time I had a massage, I was rigid with fear that there would be butt-touching.
F: And was there?
P: No.
F: Honey, are you ok?
But I digress. At some point last week, when I was forced to look in the mirror, I decided that I needed to DO SOMETHING about my HEAD and BODY (preferably a frontal lobotomy and liposuction). Instead, I got a haircut and...get this...DID EXCITING THINGS TO MY HAIR COLOR.
It was wonderful. Delightful, even. It was so nice having someone take care of me. Someone who isn't my dentist.
See you tomorrow, blog babies.
xoxo,
P.
P.S. THE BOOBIES ARE BACK.
Drawing by Mucha.
