I KNOW, RIGHT?  THREE POSTS THIS WEEK!  I feel like I’ve earned something.

A Masseuse Should Not Massage Your Breasts.  For Free, Anyway.

Gena has waited so patiently for this story, God love her.  She has a special interest since she’s actually graduating with her massage therapy certification in a month!  I’m so proud of her!  And I totally plan on utilizing her mad skillz.

When I was pregnant, I had not one but TWO gift certificates for massages come my way.  I had never ever had a massage before, and so I promised myself that I would splurge at 36 weeks and have my first one.  I also hoped that the crazy massaging action would spurn labor. (HAHAHAHA. OH, THE IRONY OF THE WEEK-LATE BABY!)

When I made the appointment at the uber-fancy botanical spa, they asked if I preferred a man or a woman.  Assuming that a woman would be more judgemental of my body, I suggested a man massage my bloated, swollen carcass. (That was brimming with life, blahblahblah.) I was set up for an appointment and advised to get there early for paperwork and water.

Yes, they said that.  Cause, you know, I don’t have water AT HOME.

But anyway, so I got there, and they had me change into a plush spa robe (I want one of those thingies, seriously), and I waited.  Finally, a gentleman whose name I cannot recall but we’ll call Chesty McTitty appeared and brought me back to the room.

Obviously, because I couldn’t lay on my stomach for the typical massage, he had me “drape” myself with sheets while laying on my side with several pillows supporting my fat haunches beautiful pregnant form.  At first, all seemed well; he chatted on about his wife having her five kids or whatever, and how they were all eleventy pounds or some other crap, and I just tried to focus on the feeling good of the massage.  But he talked so much, and about such personal things.. about his wife’s labor, the noises, etc.. that I felt.. um.. odd.  Then he placed his hands on my hips (over the drape.. FOR NOW, OH YES) and announced that, BASED ON MY SIZE, he guesstimated I’d deliver on November 26th with a nine pound baby.

Nice.

He finished with one side and asked me to flip over to my other side, and when I did, my “drape sheet” fell precariously off my boob.  Like, full on boobage happening there.  And while I normally wouldn’t care (cause I’ve shown those babies before, FOR CASH), the preceeding convo had me skeeved.  So I tenderly tugged it back up, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

“Oh, I didn’t ask.. are you planning on breastfeeding?” he asked.  Ah.  He HAD noticed.

“Yep,” I said, trying to keep my answers as terse as possible in the hopes of shutting him up.

“I should work that area a bit then,” he offered.  AND HE PROCEEDED TO MASSAGE MY BREASTS.

I left and felt very odd about the whole thing.  I mean, sure, it was a massage, so I couldn’t complain there, but um, prenatal massages are sure WEIRD with the whole breast massage thing, right?

Almost a year later, some ladies and I were getting ready in a dressing room and I retold this story when Nina, one of my good friends even if her husband doesn’t agree that we are good friends, mentioned that she had just gotten a massage and she LOVED them.  I told my story and all of the eyes in the room went WIDE.

“Sarah,” she said.  “I think you got molested.”

AND I TIPPED HIM FOR IT.  Bastard.

So How Much Do You Tip for a Happy Ending?
Alternate Title: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BRYAN!

I went on Tuesday for a post-race massage, and when I made my appointment, they asked if I would prefer a male or female masseuse.  Guess what I said?  “It doesn’t matter.”  I SAID IT DOESN’T MATTER WHY WOULD I SAY THAT?!  I felt like I would be judged as sexist or something if I said I only wanted a woman’s hands on me.  I know.  I know.

So, of course, they put me with a dude.

I fretted about it all day, and as luck would have it, my dude called in sick and I got a chick instead.  I got pretty worried because I saw a very slovenly, obese brunette walk through several times in the spa’s uniform, and I thought, Eww, please no, not her not so much because she was obese but because I thought I knew her and wouldn’t THAT be weird?  But a slight little thing with great hair and a fabulous piercing came and got me and took me back.

I opted for a hydrotherapy session before the massage, complete with coconut milk and lavender salts, and the bath had been drawn and waiting for me.  I naturally just assumed that I would be bathing alone in the room, but she informed me that, no, she was going to hang out.  “But I didn’t bring a top to wear,” I blushed.

“Honey, I have ‘em too,” she said, smiling.  “Seen it all before.”

And it was awesome that she stayed in the room, because she WASN’T chatty, and instead just applied a cold washcloth to my head and popped a straw of ice water in my mouth without me even having to ask.  It was AWESOME.  And, literally, the first bath I’ve taken in a year.

During the massage, I was laying face down on the table as she was working my calves (God LOVE that woman’s hands), and she worked my thighs HARD.  Her hands were slippery and I started thinking, “Oh God, what if she misses and suddenly she loses a hand in my nu-nu?”, and then I was wondering, “What do I tip for a happy ending?”, and then I was thinking, “Bryan would FLIP OUT if he knew this was happening,” and I started giggling through the little face hole.

She wasn’t deaf, obvsly, so she asked, “Does this tickle?”

All I could do was whisper, “.. that’s what she said..”

Today’s lesbianesque story is brought to you courtesy of Bryan’s birthday.  I hope this works instead of a gift.

Fourth Grade:

Presidential Fitness Test. (Remember those? OH, AHNOLD, HOW I HATED YOU SO FOR BRINGING THIS ABOUT.) We had to run a mile.  Outdoors.  In the heat.  They wanted us to finish the mile under 15:00.  “Walk or run,” they said at the beginning, “whatever feels comfortable for you.”

Until we hit the track.  Then it was all “PICK UP THE PACE, YOU LAZY KIDS!” and suddenly, we were all panting and cursing and generally wishing our immigration laws were stricter because that damn Schwar..zen..nag..her guy made all this happen.  And I?  Pass out.

My mother was working in the school at the time, I think as the school nurse, and I don’t remember how I got there, but I do remember coming to in the nurse’s office, with bags of ice on my head and the soles of my feet.

Thus began my issue with running.

Fifth Grade:

At my mother’s insistence, I went to train with our gym teacher some mornings before classes.  Her name was Ms. B, because she was a lady from Argenti..izstahn, and none of us could pronounce her last name.  We were trying to overcome this whole passing out thing, and surely just doing more of it would do that.  One day, as I ran around the gym, she noted that my gait was odd.. I literally only moved my knees.  My thighs stayed glued together.  I had no stride.  “Run with your thighs apart,” she’d tell me. 

Yeah.  Okay.

High School:

I attended a performing arts school, and I focused in musical theatre, which meant that I was always dancing.  Not real, at-the-barre dance necessarily, but some version of swing or jazz or box-steps.  I learned the signs of “I’m about to pass out” and heeded them.  Sometimes.  Sometimes, I’d just push through them and then pass out in the wings.

Concerned, my mom made me see a cardiologist.  On the treadmill, I did a stress test that showed only that I was out of shape.  No issues other than that.  Even though I could polka and do lifts and stunts for five minutes, I was out of shape.  And would still pass out.

Nineteen:

I was living with my first real roommate, who was a PARTY GIRL.  Although I worked a 9-5, she didn’t, and our apartment always had loud people and loud music and Lord knows I could never get any sleep.  One night, because the noise was too much and I couldn’t sleep anyway and I just had to get some quiet in my head, I put on a sports bra, some shorts, and my sneakers.  I ran from our apartment to the neighboring high school.  Then I kept going, on to a cow pasture.  Kept going from there.  The night air felt good in my lungs and I didn’t feel hot.  Of course, it was also two in the morning.  I came back and was sore as hell for four days.  And decided not to do that shit again.

Twenty.. something:

My best friend and I were living together and decided to embark on the Atkins Diet to try and regain our youthful, show-choir figures.  She was in a show that summer, and I got bored when she was at rehearsals, so I took the dogs out for walks.  iPods were the new thing and I had one, so I soon took to walking the dogs while playing some kick-ass underground rap in my ears.  Delle mentioned that the one trained dog used to run pretty regularly, so I took her up on it one night.. and I’ll be damned if that dog didn’t keep my pace up.  Pretty soon, we hit the pavement two or three times a week, running until we were both drained.  I got skinny.  And met my boyfriend/now-husband.  And stopped.

Twenty-Eight:

You name a diet or workout DVD, and I probably have tried it and own it.  And it did not show.  With a year-old toddler, a full-time (and overtime) job, a husband, and extracurriculars out of the ears, time was always an issue.  Even finding time to do a 20 minute workout DVD was a challenge.  I had no endurance.  None.  I was cast in a musical that required me to bolt up two flights of stairs in sixteen measures and then belt out another line, and my lungs melted everytime. 

I was writing for a health blog, Bodies in Motivation, and one of the other writers mentioned a new initiative she was starting.  For 30 days in April, we would all exercise 30 minutes.  I don’t know what clicked, but I decided that I would do this.  30 minutes a day is nothing.  I can manage 30 minutes a day.  Part of AndreAnna’s goal was running a 5k in October, and she mentioned the Couch to 5K method.  I remembered that Zoot also used this to start running, and more importantly, I saw that there was an iPhone app for it.  I’m a sucker for technology.

The first time I set foot on a treadmill, and the first session I did, was not easy.  It wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t easy.  But the first week was soon under my belt.  And then first two weeks.  And then the first three weeks.  And then Week 4, which was a turning point.  And then Week 5, at which point I grew a love/hate relationship with running.  I literally would suffer withdrawls if I didn’t run, but GAWDDAMN, I hated that damn treadmill.  And Week 6..?

Last Monday:

I didn’t sleep at all on Sunday night.  I was so freaked out about this damn race.  I had eighty million tidbits of advice floating around in my head, and the what-ifs that were also plaguing me.  I got up with the baby around 6:30, knowing I needed to be at the starting line in two hours.  I pulled on my race outfit, and my husband kept eyeing me.  Naturally, I thought that meant, “Sarah Lena, what in the HELL do you think you’re wearing?”, but eventually he admitted, “You look fucking HOTT in that outfit,” and I felt better.

Bryan and the baby dropped me off at the venue, and I walked around, lost and alone.  I watched several runners wrap up their 10k race and was amazed.. these were not people I would’ve pegged as “runners”.  But they did it.  They ran a race that was TWICE as long as mine.  I was especially inspired when an 85 year old man crossed the finish line.  And by inspired, I mean, I cried.

We heard the announcement that the 5k runners needed to line up at the start.  Me, being the idiot that I am, took my place at the back of the crowd.  Not realizing that, UM, SARAH, YOU’RE ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE STARTING LINE and the nice gentleman with the gun (who, oddly enough, I had worked with for years) kindly pointed me to the OTHER side.. you know, where the 2000 people were waiting.  I moseyed on back of THAT crowd, and looked around.  These were normal people.  Not Olympians.  Not crazy runners.  Normal people.  Like me.  In fact, I looked more runner-like than most of them.  Because I was wearing the outfit, really.

The shotgun went off.  People started running.  I started jogging.  Some people walked.  Everyone was happy.

About 3/4 of a mile in, I met Zoot.  We exchanged gasping pleasantries, I made sure her husband survived the 10k, and then I sprinted off.  Because I’m a RUNNER, dammit!  I need to go fast!  Fast!

Then I ended up walking.  Cause, damn, with the fast and all.

I ended up really pacing myself with a family of a father and two tweens.  The man was SO much fun to run next to.. he was like having your own personal cheerleader.  “Lookin’ GOOD!” he’d yell.  “You’re here because you WANT to be, not because you HAVE to be!  Keep it up, red!”  My first mile was clocked in at 11:30, which was faster than I planned to go, so I was all inspired again.. YES, FAST, SARAH, FAST GO FAST!

Which ended up with me walking agian.

Around the last mile, I noticed names written on the street.  Mine was there. (Steph and fam, I seriously love you.) And we could see the finish line!  And there was a car blaring the Rocky theme song!  It was the final stretch!

I decided to run it.  Like, FAST RUN FAST.

Which.. well, you know the story.  Sort of.

About fifty meters from the finish line, I started walking again.  And guess what my body said?  OH HELL NO SARAH DON’T YOU STOP BECAUSE BUHLECH. (I don’t know how to verbalize vomit.) Yes, I started dry-heaving.  At the beginning of the finish line.  Cause I’m?  AWESOME.

I heard Zoot coming from behind me and cheering me to just keep moving, and I heard the times being called at the finish line, but I just could not move any faster than a walk.  I thought I was going to die.  And, luckily, there’s only THREE FUCKING PHOTOGRAPHERS at the finish line to capture this moment.  Because Lord forbid I be able to forget how I suck at pacing myself and was dry heaving into the crowd as I finished.

But at the end, I saw Bryan and my baby on one side, and closer to the actual line, my sister and her boyfriend waiting.  I crossed the line, proud of myself, and then stopped.  “DON’T STOP MOVING,” my sister warned, “we’ve already been puked on a few times by people who stop moving.”  So I walked and they gave me water and I found my family and then?  Then it was done.  I finished 88th in my age division.  More importantly, I FINISHED.

I ran a 5k.

I don’t run.

I ran.  You can too.

Even if you have no endurance. (Cause I don’t either.)

Even if you’re out of shape. (Cause I am no size 6, my friends.)

Even if you hate running. (Cause I freakin hate running.)

Here is how you’ll do it.  Just make yourself try two weeks.  Two weeks, six workouts.  Make yourself try it.  The plan is free; the iPhone app will set you back around $2.  You’ll be so glad you did it.  Two weeks, six workouts.  You can do that.

Now, I’m beginning to train for a half-marathon with Zoot.  I’m intimidated by the distance (13 miles, y’all.. MILES, not Ks), but excited nonetheless.  Bryan wants to run a 5k with me in the fall (the Liz Hurley Ribbon Run for Breast Cancer usually falls on our anniversary).  I want my child to do the Fun Run with us afterwards. 

You can do this.

Because I’ve taken to this UNGODLY HORRIBLE AWFUL habit of only posting once a week (seriously, WTF, I was the girl who wrote two or three posts A DAY), I’ve had minature posts formulating in my head for a week now.  Bear with me; there will be no segues or continuity, because that’s just how I roll.

POST 1: The Bloggess is Ruining My Marriage

Back around Christmas, I was at an office Christmas party with Miss Zoot and Ra and J-Bo (and, you know, men and stuff) and we started talking about this awful thing that someone WHO SHALL REMAIN LINKLESS wrote and then we started talking about bloggers and this lady named The Bloggess came up, and I mentioned that I had no idea who she was, and Zoot was all, “OH EM GEE, you would LOVE her!”

So I started reading her.  And, naturally, promptly fell in love.

As I tend to do, I shared this with my husband.  And everything was fine, cause he was all, “I just don’t get her.”

But then, as time went on, he DID get her.  And every time she wrote anything, he was yelling at me, within minutes of her posting, “BWAHAHAHAHDIDYOUSEEWHATTHEBLOGGESSSAID?!”

He used to say that about me, you know.

I even tried to wingman and say things like, “Yeah, she writes like I think,” to make it sound like I shared a brain with her so maybe I was worth laughing at too, but then she got a new Mac and promptly used it to give herself three titties, and BOOM, my credibility was shot.  Because how long had Bryan begged me to find a way to have another boob added on?  A LOOONG TIME, my friends.  And I had never obliged.  Marriage FAIL.  NOW, she’s even writing a sex advice column at my new favorite ezine SexIs.  Which, AWESOME, but still?  What do I have left?  Next, I’m going to get an online alert that she’s coming over to make out with my husband. (I have that auto-alert set so I’ll have time to clean.) Anyway, I’m pretty sure this is a great excuse for a Dr. Phil show, but I really can’t stand Dr. Phil.  Do you think People’s Court would see this case?

Post 2: How to Make Tea

Lipton makes a “iced tea brew” teabag.  Get it.  In family-sized bags.

Use three to four bags.  (I know the box says 1-2. Lipton is, in general, a pussy.)

BOIL THE WATER.  Some people are all like, “Put the tea bags in warm water,” but you know what?  There are MITES in tea.  You have to boil that shit DEAD, or else you are drinking tea mites.  So fill a saucepan with water, get a rolling boil going, and submerge the tea bags.  Let it roll for another five minutes before cutting off the heat. (But then do, in fact, cut off the heat.)

Completely forget about the tea.  Seriously.  If at all possible, go run errands or take a vacation.

Freak out that you forgot about tea and say several prayers to various gods that you remembered to turn the stove off.

Pour the tea into your pitcher with one of the following: 3/4 cup of sugar OR an assload of Sweet-n-Low OR Jack Daniels.  Possibly all of the above, if your in-laws are coming over.  Note: YOU MUST ADD THE SUGAR WHILE THE TEA IS STILL WARM.  Otherwise, you’ll have crunchy tea, and we’ll all talk about you while you excuse yourself to the bathroom.

DO NOT DISCARD THE TEA BAGS.  Refill the saucepan WITH the teabags still in it.  This will allow any hidden tea to be seeped out.  Let that sit for awhile and then dump that in.  THAT, my friends, is southern tea.

Post 3: Yes, I Ran a 5k Today. A Six Year Old Beat Me.

Around the end of March, I started training for a 5k.  I don’t know why.  Because I was bored?  Yes, bored and fat.  So I thought, “What the hell?”, and I decided to become a runner.  I’m that kind of spontaneous, living-on-the-edge kind of person.  I’m also the kind of spontaneous person who RARELY finishes what she starts.  So I was all, “Yeah, pshh, I’ll TOTALLY train, heehawheehee.”

But you know what?  It kind of stuck.

Before I knew it, I was running 10-12 miles a week.. at LEAST.  Sometimes more.  And if I couldn’t make time to run every other day, I’d get some sort of weird adrenaline withdrawls.  So, conceivably, the idea of running a 5k seemed more and more realistic.  I also became one of those obnoxious runner people.  I hate those people.  And yet I am one.

This morning was my first official race.  Even yesterday, I was looking for excuses not to do it.  Everyone was hella supportive, which seemed all the more reason to quit and get the disappointment out of the way early so everyone could enjoy the last day of the long weekend.  But?  After my husband made me buy the most expensive pair of shoes I’ve ever owned so that I could run smarter, I had little choice.  That, and I got a tshirt for doing the race.

Remember how I said I was bored and fat?  I totally was not kidding.  Here I am, last September.  God, even looking at this makes me ill. (And I felt not this fat!  I actually thought I was looking GOOD here!)

I have JOWLS, people.  Seriously.  Bad stuff.  So this morning?  I was all perky and ready to go, in my race day pink.

And I look at that picture, and I feel GOOD about that girl there.  She’s hella stronger, much healthier, and proud to be fit for her babeh.

(Gratutious baby-shot.)

The one thing I was not ready for?  The amazing environment of race-day.  People were SO loving toward eachother!  It was like a brotherhood to which I did not know I was being initiated, but I loved it!  Everyone was a friend if you were there.  If you wore a number, you were like royalty.  If you were on the sidelines cheering, you were the vital adrenaline.  It was just amazing.

Even when a six year old totally left me in the dust.

Tomorrow, Promise:

Post 4: A Masseuse Should Not Massage Your Breasts. For Free, Anyway

Post 5: Oh, Shit, I Left Tea on the Stove

Post 6: If You Could Skin One Celebrity and Wear Their Flesh, Who Would it Be?