I have to get my passport renewed at some point in the near future. It’s not that we have plans to go anywhere, it’s more the thrill of knowing you can dash off at a moment’s notice that is appealing. Well, ok, that’s not entirely true since responsibilities for even extended local jaunts render the option impossible, but the idea is freeing.
I’m concerned about getting it renewed. When it comes to listing country of residence I’m not sure what to put. Oh sure, I know I reside in the USA, because the IRS tells me so, meanly, too, but honestly, I think I really live in opposite world.
We all get the sense now and again that George Castanza was on to something. And who among us didn’t think up the idea of The Truman Show before the Jim Carrey movie. But for most these are passing thoughts. Me? Oh, I’m pretty convinced this is all just for show. I too often feel like I’m in the combo show of Punk’d and that one where they piss you off and give you money for every minute you last without cutting someone. I’m due for a HUGE pay out!
I’ve been a little stressed out lately. Still getting to the bottom of it (hoping it’s lyme…don’t have the time or inclination to deal with anything else that might require more attention to deal with than that) so in the process of trying alternative ways to get some sleep I went for a massage. (Doctors seem less inclined to prescribe ambien since the whole Tiger episode. Seriously, no one is paying me to drive an escslade and there are no golf clubs near me, ever, that can be used to cause damage to an automobile. Yes. I do, in fact, know there is more to that story but honestly that’s the only part I can relate to.)
So massages, I hear, are relaxing, stress reducing pampering sessions. I had gone for two in the past. Both times I was told to consider quitting my jobs at the time. Both times it worked. This time I started out with that story and said it wasn’t on the table for negotiation. She laughed. We were off to a good start. She put her hands on my shoulders and immediately asked if I lifted weights. I said no. She said shit. I didn’t laugh.
For the next hour my facial muscles got worked from wincing as much as the knots in my back did. Apparently I hold stress in my shoulders, but they filled up over a decade ago. Good news, though. That lump on my back is not a tumor, and I learned that knots can bulge enough to be visible. (Note to self: start telling people I hold stress in my abs and that’s why they pouch like that.)
To be fair, it felt great. The hamster that apparently lives in my shoulder blade was not NEARLY as enamored with the experience as I was, but then it got its revenge not long after. At the end the massage therapist told me that yes, more sessions would be helpful, but to be realistic I should be aware that it would be impossible to be able to expect that all could be worked out after all these years. Horace (I figured after that I might as well name the hamster-knot since he’d be with me a while) and I left, vowing to return in a month or so for round 2. We then went to the store to pick up food and refreshments for the weekend (hubby and child were on a 2 day bike adventure) and returned home hopeful that the stress reduction session would at the very least enable me to get some sleep, which had been eluding me for over a month.
Holy Crap was I not prepared for the soreness that follows a first time hour-long deep tissue massage that was two decades late. Good thing the stars aligned and I had scheduled it for a Friday over a 3 day weekend. After day 2 I could do stairs. I did get some sleep, albeit in fitful freaky dream-filled hour clips. Horace laughed. I think I heard him say, “take that, bitch.”
I’ll still go back. If only to piss off Horace, but mainly to reassure myself that this isn’t the Truman show. After all, everyone can’t be lying all the time about massages, right? I mean, they do feel good and are relaxing at some point, right?
Guess I’ll hold off renewing the passport. I’d hate to find out club med sucks.