February Blues

I think the month of February

is a hard month for most.

It’s a bit cloudier, a bit colder,

(much unlike fresh toast).

We celebrated our holidays

together a few months ago.

In January, the memories still brought us joy.

In February, oh no, no, no!

Oh, what pathetic people are we,

huddling alone in our rooms

eating baguette after baguette

and chocolate by the spoon.

The little things that rolled off your shoulders

back in October or September

now make you want to yell or cry

or, perhaps, to someone, dismember.

Well, gee, I’d love to write that lesson plan

for your class tomorrow morn.

I also would’ve loved if you’d asked me

more than eight hours before.

Please stop assuming I’m wasteful,

cold-hearted, rich, and ignorant.

There’s kind of a lot of Americans

and it's possible we’re all a bit different.

No, I’m not dumb or unintelligent

just because I don’t understand.

Perhaps you could speak more clearly

and not cover your mouth with your hands.

 

Why are you standing so close to me?!

Stop staring at my face!!

Ah! The customs are so different

in this strange European place.

February Blues, what you do to me!

I’m so glad you’ve gone away.

March brings a lovely new month

and brighter, happier days!

But you wretched month, I know you’ll return

You’ll never, ever resign.

At least the next few Februaries

are only twenty-eight days instead of twenty-nine!

(Please, my friends, be aware

that I’m not really in too much pain.

Now that it's March, I’m once again content

in this country known as Spain.)

Darn you, Groupon

In this particular story, I blame the marketers of Groupon. Damn them and their convincing ways! They send me daily deals of vacations I can go on, restaurants I can eat at, and *dun dun dun* massages I can get. After a few different Groupons for massages passed by, I finally convinced myself that my back was feeling sore and I had been working so hard lately and insert other excuses here and gosh darnit, I deserved a massage!

And with a picture like this...

... who could resist, right?

So I buy my Groupon and make an appointment for a Friday morning. What a great way to start the weekend! I show up to the salon, and the woman checks me in. I have a hard time understand her because she doesn´t open her mouth when she talks. (Too many face lifts, by the looks of it.) So she resorts to short phrases and hand movements, which is fine by me. I´m directed downstairs, and then ushered into a room. With bright lights. And a table with several beach towels laid on top.

Now, I´ve only had two massages in my life, but in both those instances, there was soft music playing, the lights were dimmed, things looked clean. You know, there was a relaxing kind of feel.

(I'm sure you've figured out by this point that this massage isn't exactly what I had envisioned, but alas, I'll continue.)

Face-lift lady walks in and points at my pants and say, "Cinturón, abajo." Belt, down. As she moves about the room, I´m not sure exactly what she wants me to do. We in the United States are accustomed to a certain amount of privacy. But were not in Kansas anymore, are we Toto? And at this point I make up my mind. I realize this will be the first of many awkward moments, but today, NO SHAME SHALL BE HAD BY ME!

I drop my pants and start shedding my shirt as well, but Face-lift halts me. Okay. And tells me to hop on the table. SO I SHALL!

Survey: If you had to guess the length of Face-lift's fingernails, what would you guess? Short and well-groomed, what you would expect from a masseuse? Or long and brightly-painted, like... this:



I trust you can figure this one out.

So this woman is massaging/scratching my legs. Which might be comfortable if my head wasn´t stuffed into a beach towel. RELAX! NO SHAME, JEN!

She asks me to flip over. Ok, I can do that. And she starts lifting up my shirt. What is she doing?!? And she starting massagscratching my stomach. Really, woman? Because it´s so obvious my abs have been getting in some killer workouts?

She goes back and forth across my stomach, and as she reaches each side, her damn fingernails tickle me. And, Lord, am I ticklish. But what do I do? HAVE NO SHAME! I know how to say "tickles" in Spanish (cosquillas), but "Can you please stop massaging my stomach because it´s ticklish. Plus, it´s weird."? Hmm, not sure. So instead of relaxing, I´m having a mental battle with myself about whether or not I should just flip over on my own and force this woman to massage my back, which is actually the only thing I wanted in the first place. But I don´t want to be rude. BUT HAVE NO SHAME, JEN!

Face-lift finally stops tickling me, and instructs me to flip over (Oh thank you, sweet baby Jesus). She awkwardly pulls my own shirt off me over my head and snaps off my bra as well. HAVE NO SHAME! Meanwhile, my face is stuffed into a beach towel again. RELAX!

After a few minutes (and after I've finally adjusted my head so I could breath efficiently), I'll admit I was able to relax a bit. But before I could really enjoy it, Face-lift tells me time is up. And as she walks towards the door, she says, "Por favor apaga la luz cuando te vas." Please turn off the light when you leave. And out she goes.

The awesome thing is, guys, is that I have two more massages left! Goodness knows, I'll be ready to drop trou in front of a complete stranger. And I'll learn how to say "my sides are ticklish." And while we're at it, I'll learn how to ask them not to massage my stomach at all. Because, really, that's just weird.




P.S. I took my email off Groupon's mass email list. I had to stop the madness.