It turns out the yard work won after all. I woke up Monday morning feeling like I had been in a rough fight and had lost. Parts of my body that weren’t even supposed to move were creaking and the parts that should have been moving refused to. You need an imitation of Quasimodo in the old folk’s home? I got it ready for you.
Did I mention the steam room? Did I mention the gentleman therein who so strongly resembled a sleazy Santa Claus (do you know what Santa looks like naked? Do you want to know? No, I didn’t think you did.) and who was touching himself? Fiddling with the string section, so to speak. Maybe he had simply stumbled on a way to insure himself plenty of personal space; if so, it was working. Even in a crowded steam room he pretty much had a bench all to himself. I was reminded of the Hefty Hideaway’s Fatgirl Fashion Tips number one rule: do not draw attention to your flaws.
Much, much more appealing was the lithe beauty doing yoga in the hot tub. I’m a big fan of cute guys and graceful stretchy poses are one of my favorite was to appreciate them. So much better than nasty Saint Nick.
Being all warmed up and relaxed, I turned myself over to Armand, master of the Shiatsu, for a fabulous pummeling. Armand’s a very sweet-faced guy whom you would never suspect of packing Mighty Thumbs O’ Steel, but he does. A fabulous, fabulous massage.
And then, on the way home, I was longing for pizza at Escape From New York, but knew how impossible parking in the heart of the Castro late in the evening would be. And yet, lo, there right in front, a big ass spot calling to me, promising thin crusts and sun dried tomatoes with feta.
What could have been better? Well, as Muscato would point out, a naked John Abraham massaging me in the hot tub as I was eating pizza.
But you can’t have everything.