But instead, I’m pacing around my house, trying to figure out what I should eat for lunch, and if it’s too late to eat lunch.
Why am I devoting so many brain cells to such a simple thing? Because I’m getting a massage in 90 minutes and don’t want to feel like a beached whale on the massage table. I’ve definitely done that before: eaten too close to rub time and then, when they say, “Roll over on your stomach,” I’m like, “Really? Are you sure you want me to do this??? OK, fine, it IS your table.”
So it’s too close to rub time to really eat anything significant. (And, as a relevant side note: the only “significant” item in my fridge is left over lentil soup that Alan made for dinner last night. It was very good, but when we woke up this morning, I rolled over and noted, “Your entire bedroom smells like a fart.” I’m thinking that soup is not the best thing to ingest before getting squeezed. Ms. Masseuse: You are welcome.)
Oh, and if you read my blog earlier this week (and I’m pretty sure you did, because my stats are way up and since it’s two weeks before Christmas, you probably are done with your online shopping and looking for other ways to creatively waste time at work), you’re probably thinking, “Alison, seriously? You just got a massage on Tuesday. Isn’t this a bit excessive?”
And to you, Attentive Reader, I would say, “Absolutely.” But guess what? My first massage was approved for reimbursement from my Flex Spending Account, so I need to sneak another one in before the year is up and I forfeit those hard-earned dollars.
Plus, I figure this is good practice for the life I will lead when I win the lottery. Or for when I’m placed in an old folks home and they make me roll over periodically so I don’t get bed sores. Somehow, I’m thinking Scenario #2 is a bit more likely.
You know what? All this speculating about what/when to eat has solved my dilemma for me: it’s now too late to eat anything, so I’ll have to chew some Jelly Bellies on my way out the door. And, just to mess with the masseuse, I am going to only eat the “mojito” flavored beans so she wonders if I’m drunk at 2pm on a Saturday.
Other random thoughts that occurred to me in the spirit of “punking” my masseuse? Shredding a pair of underwear and wearing them so that when she goes to tuck the sheet around my leg and do my glutes she’ll wonder a) if I was attacked by Freddy Kruger or – more likely – b) if I’ll be able to afford to pay for the massage when it’s over. Another thought is to take a Sharpie and write “Do NOT touch” to see if she can follow instructions.
If she’s lucky, I’ll leave her a few Jelly Bellies on the table.
pithypants 
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