Dating my massage therapist
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The following are absolutely true stories in which I goofed. As you start shaking your head and thinking you’d never make mistakes like this, understand that I’m a textbook author, I have a thriving private medical massage practice, and I have spoken nationwide on lymphatic, medical, and oncology massage.
Farting is natural, especially when your abdomen’s being probed in a therapeutic way.
Although it may be hard to believe after reading this, I have never been tossed out of the profession or reprimanded by a state board.
Whether you’re an uninhibited veteran or a skittish first timer, there are physical secrets you can’t hide from me, your massage therapist. It doesn’t matter whether you’re shaped like an apple, a pear, or a bottle of pomegranate juice. From that vantage point, we’re all Picassos, our eyes and nostrils more chaotically placed than you might imagine. Breasts fall, bellies lose their elasticity, and those of us lucky enough to survive our first three or four decades have more dewlaps than an iguana. The softest, most wonderful-feeling flesh I ever touched belonged to an 80-year-old competitive swimmer…who finished last in every race he entered. Working with a first-time client, I sometimes think, “Oh, you poor thing, I bet you played college football” or “I bet your job required you to stand in high heels eight hours a day for some twenty-odd years. Don’t be ashamed if you clicked on this article, secretly hoping for scientific proof of a miracle berry with the power to erase cellulite, acne, and all evidence of sun damage.
Leave your underwear on, if it makes you more comfortable. I guess morgue workers have similar access to these sorts of upside-down facial realities, but I’ll stick with live flesh. Rather than attempting to outfox the natural progression of time with painful, expensive procedures and injections, revel in the elegance of biology. He seemed happy enough, hopping onto the table for a complimentary sports massage after every heat. These hands-on insights allow me to tell teenagers to stop slumping without fretting that I’ve become an old fusspot.