When I get attached to a book (I mean, really attached) I will mourn its end. Regardless the ending, I am depressed that it’s over. This doesn’t happen very often but when it does, I really feel that I go into some kind of mourning.
I recently finished a series that had me absolutely captivated (800 pages in 2 days tells you something). When I read the final page, I was so content with the ending and so sad to have lost this new world. I mentioned this feeling to a coworker and she looked at me like I was an idiot.
So, I just want to throw this out there: Does anyone else mourn the end of a really good book? I can’t imagine that I’m the only one who goes through this. Or perhaps, is there a better way to describe it? Is it more of a withdrawal?
Regardless, I’m usually sad for a few days, consider reading it again, and finally choose a book that is a polar opposite of the book in mourning.
What books do you mourn and how do you deal?
Friday, July 8, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Do you feel SO much better now?
Andy and I had the pleasure of visiting some friends and family over the 4th of July holiday. We made the miserably dull drive to Reno and celebrated the birth of our nation in style. We barbecued, we hiked, we enjoyed the casino scene, we saw some fireworks—it was an all around fabulous trip.
When we arrived at our friends’ house Aron told Andy their t-time was at 1 and Mara had the brilliant idea of the girls hitting the spa while the boys golfed. I couldn’t have picked a better pastime. We chose a spa located in a hotel in South Reno. I’d never been there, she’d never been there. It was an adventure. We arrive at the spa, fill out the paperwork, change into robes, and wait for our massage therapists.
Cindy emerges from the bowels of the spa and leads me back to a room. On my way, I notice that the spa has a nice ambiance and friendly staff. So far, so good. Upon entering the room, my attention is drawn to a reusable grocery bag filled with used Tupperware and trash. Apparently, Cindy has just finished her lunch and left it in the treatment room. I silently wondered if they don’t provide a break room and lockers in which Cindy could have left the remains of her lunch. I shrug off the thought and prepare for the heaven that is a massage.
Cindy increases the volume of her zen-friendly music and the massage begins. “So, are you a guest here?” asks Cindy. Ugh. Chatty therapist. This is always a tricky situation. I don’t want to be rude but I also don’t want to talk. Thankfully, I escape the situation when someone knocks on the door and enters followed by a very loud whisper saying “UGH!! I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY. I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE WITH A CLIENT. I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY!!!!” Cindy begins laughing loudly and hysterically and feels in necessary to tell me what she finds so funny. She begins a monologue about every single time she’s been interrupted or starts working on the wrong client. I close my eyes and try to tune her out.
After Cindy’s recount of several stories she falls silent. I think I’m in the clear until “Man! Your skin is soaking up my oil! You must be dehydrated!” I feel that this statement goes into the category of “things you shouldn’t tell people who are tipping you.” I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that she was using cheap scented oil. But, whatever. Maybe I was.
Usually a massage therapist will ask you how the pressure is. I waited for this question and it never came. So I softly clear my throat and say, “Would you mind doing a deeper pressure?”
“Oh no,” Cindy begins. “This is a Swedish massage. Did you want a deep tissue?”
The massage continues and I notice that my heart rate is up and something is weird. Then I place it. Her zen-friendly music has morphed into a bad ass electric guitar solo. I am listening to hair metal at half volume.
That was it. I was ready to leave. 45 minutes had gone by and I wasn’t relaxed at all. I was frustrated and formulating this blog post the entire time. Cindy takes a final breath signaling that the massage was over.
“Well, that's it," says Cindy. "Do you feel SO much better now?”
When we arrived at our friends’ house Aron told Andy their t-time was at 1 and Mara had the brilliant idea of the girls hitting the spa while the boys golfed. I couldn’t have picked a better pastime. We chose a spa located in a hotel in South Reno. I’d never been there, she’d never been there. It was an adventure. We arrive at the spa, fill out the paperwork, change into robes, and wait for our massage therapists.
Cindy emerges from the bowels of the spa and leads me back to a room. On my way, I notice that the spa has a nice ambiance and friendly staff. So far, so good. Upon entering the room, my attention is drawn to a reusable grocery bag filled with used Tupperware and trash. Apparently, Cindy has just finished her lunch and left it in the treatment room. I silently wondered if they don’t provide a break room and lockers in which Cindy could have left the remains of her lunch. I shrug off the thought and prepare for the heaven that is a massage.
Cindy increases the volume of her zen-friendly music and the massage begins. “So, are you a guest here?” asks Cindy. Ugh. Chatty therapist. This is always a tricky situation. I don’t want to be rude but I also don’t want to talk. Thankfully, I escape the situation when someone knocks on the door and enters followed by a very loud whisper saying “UGH!! I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY. I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE WITH A CLIENT. I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY!!!!” Cindy begins laughing loudly and hysterically and feels in necessary to tell me what she finds so funny. She begins a monologue about every single time she’s been interrupted or starts working on the wrong client. I close my eyes and try to tune her out.
After Cindy’s recount of several stories she falls silent. I think I’m in the clear until “Man! Your skin is soaking up my oil! You must be dehydrated!” I feel that this statement goes into the category of “things you shouldn’t tell people who are tipping you.” I’m sure it had nothing to do with the fact that she was using cheap scented oil. But, whatever. Maybe I was.
Usually a massage therapist will ask you how the pressure is. I waited for this question and it never came. So I softly clear my throat and say, “Would you mind doing a deeper pressure?”
“Oh no,” Cindy begins. “This is a Swedish massage. Did you want a deep tissue?”
The massage continues and I notice that my heart rate is up and something is weird. Then I place it. Her zen-friendly music has morphed into a bad ass electric guitar solo. I am listening to hair metal at half volume.
That was it. I was ready to leave. 45 minutes had gone by and I wasn’t relaxed at all. I was frustrated and formulating this blog post the entire time. Cindy takes a final breath signaling that the massage was over.
“Well, that's it," says Cindy. "Do you feel SO much better now?”
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