I attribute my extraordinary sense of intuition to be the guiding force behind my countless successes in life. Case in point: Last month when I was in Hawaii with my girlfriends, we drove past the beach where Bethany Hamilton's arm was chomped off by a shark. I then learned approximately half of the women I was traveling with were on their periods.
I secretly googled how far away sharks could smell blood and then decided to lay on the beach and sleep while they went snorkeling. I genuinely like most of my friends so I kept my little first-aid kit next to me. And while I absolutely detest being woken up, I totally would have given them a band-aid and a Tylenol if I saw them crawling up the beach without a leg.
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Mooooving on, last week I attempted to do a handstand during my private yoga lesson. (Judge away. I super care. Sweating in public is disgusting. Oh and yoga pants will show your vagina outline, don’t kid yourself.) Because my spine is almost completely fused from having major back surgery twenty years ago, I desperately wanted to make an inspirational video with my dedicated yoga instructor cataloging our triumphs together.
*Google: “Overwight Asian Dude Who Takes Up Yoga and Learns How to Walk Again and Gets Super Hot.” Are you crying like a fucking baby now? Well, our video was going to be even MORE amazeballs.
Anyhow, my sell-out, tattletale neurons quickly informed my medulla oblongata of my intention to complete a handstand, “Erin- Your arms resemble limp stalks of white asparagus. This is a bad idea.” I rolled my eyes. “Oh Brain, you are such a downer, this is precisely why I had to put you on Lexapro. Now shut the fuck up and watch this!” I hoisted myself up and for .00005 of a second I gloriously stood on my hands!!!! And then I fell. Hard.
NEW ECHO DOT
The next day I woke up and considered dying. I weighed my options and decided that Mike would have enough money to hire a Swedish nanny with my life insurance policies and decided to go get a massage instead. I called up the spa.
Me: Hi. Erin Moroni here. Can I please schedule a massage pronto. I think my ribs might be protruding from my skin but, I am too afraid to look.
Receptionist: Of course. Do you care if a man massages you?
Me: Does he work there?
Receptionist: Yes.
Me: Is he creepy?
Receptionist: Uncomfortably long pause....I don't think so.
An hour later, I hobbled into the spa just as a male masseuse was asking the front desk lady if she had a pair of box cutters. I felt instantly comfortable so, I went back into the room and got naked. Apparently, my masseuse’s name was Dan because it said so on his shirt. I called him Eric the whole time. Whatever. I told him I had AIDS and lots of other diseases so he would think twice about raping me. I then proceeded to get the best massage of my life.
He switched my appointment from an hour to ninety minutes. I think I even moaned and screamed a few times which, is something I solemnly vowed never to do. Moaning totally grosses me out. My grandpa used to make me rub his head (the one on his shoulders) and he was a moaner. Not so coincidentally, my grandma and him are now divorced.
Anywho, Eric was super attentive to my needs. When he tried to rub the fat under my ass, I told him to move along but, like not to my boobs. He just started laughing. I left that place feeling so good, I will probably attempt another handstand this week.
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The moral of this blog is that sometimes you get eaten by sharks when you are on your period, sometimes you don’t. Asian people can all do handstands, white girls cannot. And lastly, just because someone needs box cutters immediately prior to massaging you, does not necessarily mean he wants to kill you. Usually it does, but not always. XO
PS Happy Birthday Katie Lev. I hope your birthday was MAGICal.
I am a writer, parent, and generally loose in the world. Yes, I meant what I said. Whatever. I handled it.
