After three days of vigorous workouts, my eyes slowing opened this morning thinking about my impending day at the gym. After all, it is Saturday when all the newby firefighters are reduced to little girls by the herculean Tamara.
I've been around Tamara for three years now, and I still can't stop staring at her. She is the female, white, red-headed version of Duane "The Rock" Johnson. Her rump is as big as my nightstand. I could actually set my glass on it. Now I wouldn't, but if she were knocked out cold, I don't think I could stop myself.
Oh yeah, I was inching towards the edge of the bed. No scratch that. As I attempted to inch towards the edge of the bed, every muscle group in my body threw up a protest sign and popped open the tear gas. This is the first time in my life I've actually understood the whole, "I need a massage" thing. My BFFs have made fun of me because I'm just not one of those people. They coaxed me into my first massage in Hawaii three years ago (first massage at age 45) and I can still count on one hand the number I've had since then.
You can call it shy, inhibited or whatever. My theory has always been that massages were created to relax muscles. Now, why would someone with no muscles ever need a massage? My fear is a masseur would spend the entire 50 minutes looking for something to rub. How embarrassing this would be. I suppose they could rub anything, and I've heard some of them do. However, I always figured my fat didn't deserve such attention. I will not reward my fat with a rubdown.
Well the point is, I think I now have something to rub.
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