An Affair To Remember

What would be considered a relaxing experience to the “normal” person can only be described as an anorexic’s idea of hell. Courtesy of Spa Week, I had an appointment for a 75 minute hot stone massage on Saturday. It turns out my masseuse was a young, cute, surfer-guy and the room I was about to bear my ass in didn’t have black-out shades or dim lighting. I panicked, but couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse (other than my fucked-up body image) to back out so I got undressed and tried not to hyperventilate as the surfer oiled me down to the tunes of Bob Marley. I felt the same kind of shame that’s typical after a one-night stand. I was allowing this man to see me in “most” of my glory fat after only having just met him. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, but not before booking my next appointment for June. That means I have two months to get emaciated again and redeem myself. He needs to know I’m not usually this chunky.