The trouble with massages

A few weekends ago, I treated myself to a massage. 


It's funny that I consider a massage a "treat", when I easily spend the same amount at the drugstore on various beauty items. But beauty products weren't really the ideal solution to the headache-a-day situation I was experiencing a few weeks ago. 


The thing about getting a massage is I'm never fully relaxed until it's time to go. To remedy this, I booked 90 minutes. If you've never had a 90-minute massage, it's the shit. Do it. Now. 


By the time it was over, I was about ready to move into Espace Nomad. I would have happily slept on that heated massage table until the next morning. And I would have happily paid the price of showing up at work the next day with hair full of massage oil. A small price to pay, if you think about it. Did I mention the table is heated? 


At the end of the massage, the massage therapist asked me if I was stressed. My immediate answer was "not really." But when I thought about it for a millisecond, I remembered that OH YAH - I'm moving in with my boyfriend in 10 days, in another province, to start a new job in a new city and I'm trying to rent out my condo to a non-crazy person and I have to buy a car and pack up my entire life and oh, my parents are getting a divorce. 


Whatevs. No biggie. 


I thought I was handling it all pretty well. I mean, for a stresscase like me who is always between 6-8 on the stress-o-meter, I was sleeping (mostly) and not busting out in tears at work (mostly). 


The move, for the most part, will work itself out. It will just be expensive. Finding a job was the hardest part and now that that is done, I have a growing to-do list of boring things like buying boxes and shutting off my cable and reserving the elevator. But the end result is getting to see my manfriend everyday and starting an actual life together in the same area code. I've moved around enough in my life to be able to handle another. I mean, this one is at least in the same country. Which is pretty easy compared to the places I've moved to in the past. No visa required. Sweet deal. 


My family, on the other hand, I'm not so sure about. I wake up thinking about it and I go to bed thinking about it. It's difficult enough that my parents are no longer together, but when people in my family throw even more issues on top of it and decide to stop speaking to other people in my family, it's a lot to take in. And that's what is happening. It's a situation I don't understand, cannot relate to and more importantly, breaks my heart. Every single day. 


My folks aren't perfect. Nobody is. But there is no doubt in my mind, that everything they've done in the their life, they've done for their children. And I feel incredibly lucky to have the parents that I do. Growing up, I had friends whose parents were selfish or mean or just didn't give a shit, and I didn't really understand it. Both of them, in different ways, have had my back my whole life. Besides, life is short and they aren't going to be around forever so if you can't wake up and just accept your folks, or the rest of your family, the way they are, then what's the point? You only get one family.


So, I've been doing my best to support both of them. It's hard. But they've been there for me my entire life and they are the only parents I have.They are still the exact same people, just a lot sadder. And each for different reasons. I really hope something improves because mostly I feel helpless. I can't fix any of this. I don't know what to say to either of them anymore. People keep telling me I have a choice. I can choose to take care of myself first, and take a break from my family. What? No. There is no such thing as a choice when it comes to your family. There is doing to the right thing and doing the wrong thing. And I can only get through this the best way I know how and that is by knowing that I'm doing the right thing. 

The death of a small animal. From a farm.

There comes a time in every young person's life, to make a mistake. Or, in my case, a few. 


There was that time my mom's car got hit by another car in a parking lot. While I was driving. That other time I dated a guy who wore the same leather pants every day for 3 weeks. Oh, and that time I got a tattoo that meant small barnyard animal in Chinese. 


There is a story that goes along with that. But I've told it about eleventy hundred and 12 times. If you'd like to be reminded of how it came to be that I got small barnyard animal tattooed on my back, please read this here post. 


Instead of a wordy and smart-sounding post about my foolish youth, I'm going to make this short and sweet and tell you about how brave I was to get a big ass tattoo to cover up the stupid one. I've only been talking about it for umpteen years. Plus, I slept a maximum of 4 hours last night and am having trouble forming coherent sentences. 


Oh, I'm in Amsterdam. I got here Wednesday for work. I have the jet lag. 


Behold the before and after photos. 

Before

After 

Can you even see where the before picture is hidden? I bet you can't. Thanks to the amazing Nick Oaks. I was so nervous when I went in on Saturday, I wanted to barf. He was super nice and calmed me down right quick. We chatted for the 2(ish) hours that I sat there for and I only took one mini break. Tough, eh? 


People keep asking if it hurts. Yes. Yes it does. Everything you've heard about tattoos is true. They hurt. Geez. 

Sharing a house is fun!

In T minus nine weeks, I'll be moving 5 hours away, to the suburb-filled province of Onterrible Ontario. I've been so caught up with the details of the move that I've totally forgotten about the move IN portion of this activity. So, naturally this has brought on yet another panic. In addition to the must-rent-my-condo panic, must-buy-a-car panic and the must-find-a-new-job panic. No biggie. 

I lived with a boyfriend once. Well, twice. But they were both roommates first, boyfriends later. And I was twenty-something and not that smart and one of them didn't speak English, so let's not count those. 

This is the first time I've met a dude and decided I liked him enough to leave my house, and go live in his house so we could be together more and you know, plan a future and everything. Big news. 

My manfriend was pretty awesome about my one major freak out, which came on randomly when I realized exactly how different my every day was going to become. I already told you about my fear of the suburbs. Nothing about our actual relationship worries me. We're one of those annoying couples who never argue. But even BFF's have a learning curve when they move in together, right? Here is a small list of things that may or may not cause a few tantrums. 

1. Manfriend's house is very manish: It's bachelor code to have a leather couch and a big screen TV. Lucky for me, my manfriend has two of each. And a papaya-coloured wall. And 17 bottles of the same shampoo in his shower. And he sleeps with the remote control in his bed. And watches football and/or hockey for what I'm pretty sure is 8 hours a day. None of the above things are in line with how I roll. 


I'm pretty used to being on my own. I bought a condo on my own and decorated it exactly the way I like. Now, my manfriend is not some kind of gorilla-man who refuses help in the decor department. He's readily admitted that his place needs a lady's touch. i.e. moi. But I'm also not silly enough to charge in there and start painting walls pink and buying floral bedspreads. Mostly because floral bedspreads are ugly. And you know, that's rude. So, somewhere between 8 hours a day of football and all the leather, I need to find some Lindsayism. A decorative pillow or two. A couple of lamps. Matching towels perhaps. And TLC and HBO available on whichever TV I'm going to be forced to watch during the Superbowl. 


2. Manfriend cannot fall asleep unless the TV is on. 
Please consult #1 to find out what he's watching when falling asleep. See, I'm a pretty light sleeper. And I require darkness and quiet to sleep. A quiet mind, if you will. Hence my obsession with yoga. I'm one of those people whose mind races at night and all the stress of the day and life keeps me awake and OMG SO MANY THINGS IN MY HEAD. It's important for this girl to SLOW THE EF DOWN. Especially at the end of the day. Get away from the computer and stop checking my phone. And when there is light and noise and busy-ness and whathaveyou, it's difficult to quiet ye olde mind. 


The manfriend works shifts. He works days for two weeks, then nights for two weeks and so on and so forth. Neither of us are a fan of the night shifts and I hope that he can eventually not work them. In the meantime, however, it means that I get at least two weeks a month of non-TV sleep time. Otherwise I might try wearing earplugs and an eye mask and whining loudly. I'll probably throw a couple of dramatic sighs in there too. 


3. Manfriend wants nothing to with a feline in the bed. 
See, this is tricky. Because I'm used to having Henry in my bed practically every night. And I quite like him there. I mean, he's furry and warm and cute. So I don't have a solution to this problem yet. Other than sneaking Henry into bed when the manfriend is falling asleep watching football. See what I did there? 

Resolutions shmezolutions.

I don't believe in new year's resolutions. Ef that noise. 


Why so much pressure on January 1? 


I prefer to make small changes on a random Wednesday in May, for example. I mean, that could also be the start of a new year if you want. Or maybe you just need 4 months to warm up to your resolution. 


Whatevs. 


Instead, I prefer to look back at 2011 and all the stuff that happened. See the list below. Because analyzing the past and all the things you can't change is great for your self-esteem. 


Lucky for me, 2011 was a pretty good year. Way better than 2010. Except the family part (see #10). That part keeps me up at night and makes me cry. And might require another blog post. A long, long time from now. 


1. I broke up with someone who was very, very wrong for me. 
2. I went on vacation with my sister to Panama. 
3. I started a new blog. 
4. I joined a gym and become obsessed with yoga.
5. I met my best friend. 
6. I turned 32.
7. I started writing funny stuff about advertising. 
8. I got a new/old job. 
9. I started a small side business doing nails.
10. My parents separated. 
11. I went to Toronto many, many times. 
12. I went on vacation with my manfriend (see #5) to Mexico. 

All Zumba'd out.

Somewhere during my upbringing, I was taught that hate is a very strong word. When it came to fish sticks, "I don't care for them" was a much more acceptable way to express my feelings about a meal that smelled like dirty ocean. 

I don't care for cardio. 

But I know it's necessary. For my health and all that. And as much as I pretend, I'm just not disciplined enough to hit the machines at the gym a few times a week. The elliptical is the least annoying and the only one I will even go close to. The stairmaster and the treadmill don't even make the cut. Vomit. Boring. Yoga always wins. Always.

So last week, I thought I'd try out Zumba. Due to my Latino connection from back in the day - semesters in Cuba and Mexico and my short obsession with Latino men - I was a bit of a salsa-a-holic in my early twenties. And from what I'd heard about Zumba, there was salsa music, bum shaking and fancy footwork. 

So, obviously I was going to be a complete pro at it. 

In case you aren't down with the latest old lady workout trends, Zumba is a dance-style aerobic workout. There is choreography and everything. The teacher dances and claps a lot and you try to follow. There's also lots of jumping. 

Only five ladies showed up to to class before the teacher took her place at the front of the room. It's worth nothing that the woman in front of me, all 5-foot nothing of her, was dressed in a unitard. You heard me. Like a wrestling outfit. But with pants. 

It wasn't long after the music started that the hysterical laughter began. Directed at myself, of course. 

For the next hour, I got to stare at my sweaty, uncoordinated self shimmy, shake and swirl. It really wasn't cute and I was very disappointed I didn't look nearly as cool as I thought trying to dance sexy-like. 

And I took a pole-dancing class you know. 

For one, my hips totally suck. There was no Dirty Dancing-style gyration. But there was robotic, pinballesque movements. So, that was a a bit of a 90-year-old-with-a-broken-hip moment. I also failed miserable at what I imagined was supposed to be the hip-hop portion of the dance. Sorry, Beyoncé. I've let you down. 


And I clearly didn't wear the right bra for all the jumping. That was a bit, um, painful. To say the least. 

Unitard, mentioned above, was a particular highlight of the evening. She couldn't stop smiling at herself in the mirror and danced her own special version of the Carlton dance. I had to admire her. That whole "dance like no one is watching" quote? I think it was written about her. 

There was also the WOO lady in the front row. 

The Zumba music, apparently, isn't your average Shakira or Carlos Vives tune. Oh no. There are special Zumba remixes. Take your average Shakira or your Carlos Vives and throw a lil "ZUMBAAAAAA" into the lyrics. Ta dah! Zumba music. 

And it was that lyric that brought out WOO lady's magic. I clapped when clapping was requiring, and I smiled like an idiot on a dance show when the teacher yelled at me to smile, but WOO lady was really givin'er. A couple of head shakes, then a "WOO! WOO! WOO!" The WOOs combined with the clapping was really something to see.

The class made me super sweaty and my abs and thighs were sore for days after. And I came home feeling relaxed after a jam-packed work day. So I guess I got something out of it. But unfortunately, I lost my delusions of grandeur. I have evidence that I am not, in fact, even close to a good dancer. And when a woman in a unitard totally shows you up, your ego takes a bit of a hit.

I might go back to dancing alone in my living room, where there is no mirror and I am still a salsa pro.