Polished

I’m writing to you from the break room of ME. I’m always here if you ever need to find me. Part of me feels hypnotized; part of me still feels asleep. I work too much. It’s another beautiful day out in the Glastonbury plaza. The BMW’s that line the street are all sparkly and newly minted. There are a lot of Honda’s too. Or is it Hyundai? Whichever one has an ‘H’ for it’s emblem. They all look good enough to still be inside whatever dealership they came from.

The clients that leave the spa are also sparkly. Their hair is a mess, and the back of their heads are all matted down from the lotion or oil that their therapist used. Whenever I see a newly massaged person, they remind me of what a car looks like after it went thru the wash. The cars don’t want to get dirty again, so the owners park them on the street on a nice sunny day to show off its fresh shimmer. Clients want to preserve their relaxation, but want to show it off too. They relax outside Starbucks, sitting at a table or on the bench feeling mildly proud of themselves. Even prouder if they can see their shiny car parked in its spot. They sit relaxed and happy. Marinating in the sunshine, soaking up the glorious day.

And here I sit. On the couch. The same couch I fell asleep on both Monday and Tuesday. Now it’s Thursday and I want to lay my head down again. Why can’t I be one of those sparkly people? Why can’t my car have those diamond gumdrop specks of carwash juice? No. Instead, I sit here with bags under my eyes, my arms being sore, I have to pee a little. I have pen mark on my khaki pants and bird shit on my windshield.

14 minutes went by since I started this post. My client is late. Really late. He was supposed to be here at two. Where the hell is he? He can’t be at starbucks, he hasn’t gotten his massage yet and wouldn’t be able to fully enjoy his grande half-caff cappuccino in the glistening sun. I guess he may still be at the carwash. It makes sense to want to wash the car first so it can nest outside ME looking newly massaged just as he will be.

I’m going to go to the bathroom. That would be one less hindrance I have to worry about. But the bird shit on my windshield and the pen mark on my pants will just have to wait.

I’m starting to get cold. My body temp always runs a cool constant of 97.8. People wonder why I’m always cold, well, I’m just a cool girl, what can I say?

It looks like my guys not coming. At least my laptop is keeping my thighs warm. At least I’m not just sitting here like a baboon with my thumb up my butt. I’m being constructive. I always try to be constructive.

How can I be hungry again?

My client is here. His wife went into false labor and that’s why he‘s late. Labor or not, he is here.

OK I’m back. One hour and twenty dollars later. It is 3:39. My next client is at 4. The labor guy kept his phone turned on and close by.

“I usually don’t leave my phone on, but my wife’s expecting.”

Can you imagine your wife at home with labor pains while you go off to get a massage? He wanted the newly polished look. He was jealous of his unborn baby being more polished looking than he. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s getting a latte right now, leaning on the hood of his car sipping his beverage, feeling mighty nice. He signed up for the membership. He left me $20. He’s going to be a father. Life is good for him right now and he needs to relax to get that overwhelmingly happy sensation from bogging down his head.

I’ve been overwhelmingly happy before. I don’t like it. It makes me feel stupid.

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