Last week was my birthday aka “Lori’s Day”. It’s quite a big deal. You may have heard of it. It may even be pre-printed on your planner. (Oh geez, am I the only one who still uses a planner that doesn’t have to be charged?) This year, as usual, I had “Lori’s Day” all planned out. I was going to go running around the lake at my neighborhood park and then go for a massage. Perfect. Then the threat of a snowstorm came. And the lake was deemed too treacherous. (Not by me but I didn’t want to take the chance. I wouldn’t have minded having a helicopter ride on my birthday but it would have been embarrassing if it was to airlift my broken body from the park to the hospital.) So that portion of “Lori’s Day” was shot.
Then came the massage. Why oh why couldn’t I have found a massage therapist from New York… or New Hampshire… or Michigan… or Switzerland? Anywhere where they look down their noses at a mere foot of snow. But no. This woman wasn’t about to venture out to touch my body or anybody else’s. Of course you may ask why my Prince Charming husband didn’t ride in on his white trusty steed and offer to save me from my tired lower back muscles or carpal tunnel.
Do you have a husband? My husband, maybe like many husbands, maybe like all husbands only carries two sizes of massages in his inventory. The One-handed-while-he’s-watching-Family Guy-12 second: “Okay, here. That should hold ya.” Or the much more extensive, heartfelt (or some body part felt) massage that would quickly turn “Lori’s Day” into “Lloyd’s Day”. That’s all he ever has in stock: Either the extra-small massage or the XXX massage. He never has “medium” massage in stock.
I headed out into the “storm” (see last post) looking for something- anything- open. Maybe I could spend my big day at a Taco Bell or a car wash. I was determined to have a good time on my birthday even if it meant overturning in a drainage ditch. Finally I found a place willing to do my nails. And I’m nothing but grateful. Really I am.
But manicurists should have a dress code. Or at least pedicurists. Or at least don’t talk to me while you’re clipping my toenails. What I’m getting at is that if you look up and talk to me, I’m going to have to look down and respond. And if I look down and respond, I’m talking right into your cleavage. I don’t want to talk into your cleavage. Nothing is more depressing on your birthday than spending the afternoon chatting with another woman’s cleavage. It looks like I’m checking you out because there’s nowhere else for me to look. I promise you: If you ever see me on Shark Tank it will be hawking a pedicure chair which tilts at an angle so you have the option of not looking down the pedicurist’s shirt while she’s scraping your callus.
So the lesson to learn from my special day is simple: Be thankful for every moment because things could always be a lot worse: My birthday could have been the following day which I spent in the company of a 24 hour stomach virus. The total sum of my “Lori’s Day” plans would have been deciding which was more pressing at the moment: Facing the toilet or sitting on it.