Happy Ending

It’s been a rough week.  Upon my return from a week-long sojourn to the Greenbrier (America’s Resort—not the rehab facility), my four year old Dylan caught a really nasty strep infection. 

Sunday, I was lounging poolside with a glass of champagne following a strenuous 18 holes on Old White.   

Monday, I was covered in vomit, delivering endless popsicles and ordering Barbie movies On Demand. 

Life is funny like that.

By Thursday night, I was physically and mentally exhausted.  When my husband Mike came home from work, I informed him that I was going down to Golden Fingers—the best kept secret in Pittsburgh.  I’m a huge fan of getting massages and this place is THE BEST.  For 68 dollars, you get an hour.  I will admit it is a little weird at first, but you get used to it. 

For one thing, they do kind of a “wet willy” in your ears with oil.  They also take those oily hands and run them through your hair during a scalp massage, so it’s best to not go after a fresh blowout.  Other than that, it’s perfect.

Thursday’s massage was something special.  The technician was applying the right amount of pressure, the music was soothing and the temperature of the room was sublime.  I could feel all of my tension melting away and I had achieved complete and total relaxation, which is not an easy feat these days. 

As a started to daydream, I realized that she had worked her way down my body and was now about five millimeters away from my butthole.  Talk about a dilemma.  Was this some sort of “happy ending” for the female clientele?  Do I say something or just go with it?

While I contemplated my next move, she started to concentrate on my hamstring and I couldn’t stop laughing.  Had I really just thought that was going to happen?

The rest of the massage was business as usual until the conclusion where she tapped me on the shoulder and said “OK Missy, get your clothes on.  I’m finished.” 

Missy?  Twenty minutes ago we were butt buddies and now I am just a “Missy” to you?

Regardless, I drove home feeling relaxed and ready to slip back into my Florence Nightingale role.  When I walked in the door, Dylan was patiently waiting as her Dad tried in vain to locate Barbie movies.  They both looked relieved to see me.

As we settled in for the night, Dylan watching Charm School and Mike and I browsing idly on our iPads, I turned my attention on debating whether or not I should buy red Hunter boots to emulate an outfit I saw on Pinterest.  I already have black ones.  Does one need more than one pair of Hunter boots?  As it turns out, the answer is YES if you live in Pittsburgh and it rains pretty much every day.

My little girl was feeling better and my new boots were on the way.  I couldn’t think of a better happy ending.