It hurt to open my eyes this morning. I tried to move, but couldn’t. My muscles ached; my mouth felt like a desert. I willed my arm to reach for the bottle of water by the bed.
I know what you’re thinking. But you're wrong.
I wish I was hungover. At least then I would have some fun (if blurred) memories of getting into this condition. But no, the cause of this pain was nothing fun; this agony is the result of a ten mile run.
I’m sure some of you are thinking I’m insane for attempting to run ten minutes much less ten miles (and I sort of agree with you), but there are a few of you (and you know who you psychos are) who are thinking, “Ten miles? I do that in my sleep!” Either way, there it is. I’ve somehow turned into a runner.
I started jogging in high school as part of an obsessive need to control my weight. I kept on jogging throughout college (running ‘the loop’ was a prerequisite for every Vandygirl), and I’ve kept it up fairly regularly ever since. I used to aim to run a couple of miles, maybe two or three times a week, and that was enough to keep me feeling pretty good about myself. However, over the past year, I’ve become quite the little jogger. I’m not going to run a marathon any time soon, but I can run ten miles! Sure, I may not be able to move the next day, but I can do it.
The question is, why do I want to do it? I mean isn’t running basically just self-inflicted torture? Possibly… Probably.
One of my girlfriends says all of this running is a metaphor; she's convinced I’m subconsciously trying to run back to Atlanta! In a way, maybe she's right. I think it started as a way to escape my in-laws. Going for a morning run allowed me to skip out on breakfast with the fam – more than adequate motivation to lace up my Nikes. On the weekends, I found myself staying out longer and longer, simply to avoid the drama. Well, I no longer share a roof with my in-laws, but I’m still running. I think the masochist inside of me enjoys pushing my limits.
Of course, the obsessive teenager who forced me to start jogging in the first place still provides ample motivation. As much as I try to deny her existence, she continues to tell me I will become an enormous pig if I don’t pound the pavement daily. It’s her voice that gets me out of bed at six a.m. It’s her thoughts that taunt me as I eat a bowl of ice cream. It’s her self esteem that convinces me everything would be better if I could just lose five pounds.
I think most women (and plenty of men too) have a somewhat twisted relationship with their bodies. We consistently fight our natural shape; we long to look like someone else. We eat too much; then we don’t eat enough. When we do eat something delicious, we feel guilty. We drag ourselves to the gym for all the wrong reasons. We take a ridiculous amount of pleasure from fitting into a smaller size. We continue to tie our self worth to what we look like.
I’m embarrassed to say that despite years of therapy, I’m still as guilty as the next girl. But is that it? Do I simply accept that I'll always be a slave to my running shoes? And if so, maybe that’s not really such a bad thing. Doesn’t a mild obsession with diet and exercise ensure a long, healthy existence? And yet, nobody likes the girl who eats a salad at a pizza party. I don’t want to be that girl any more than I want to hang out with her! But I also don’t want to eat pizza on Friday night, only to spend most of Saturday beating myself up about it.
It’s not a coincidence that this spike in my obsession coincided with my moving to Johannesburg. So much of it is about control, and living in a foreign country has certainly made me feel slightly powerless. And of course half the problem is having too much time to think about it. My life here in Joburg has awarded me the luxury of time, but what am I doing with this precious gift? Am I saving the planet? Am I learning new things? No, I’m spending hours at the gym obsessing about how much I weigh…and I’m tired of it.
I didn’t mean to get so serious today, but there it is – my most shameful thoughts splattered across your computer screen. I hope this little glimpse into the shadows of my mind hasn’t scared you. I may be mildly twisted, but aren’t we all? (Most of you just have the good sense to keep quiet about it!) It’s all about balance, I suppose, and I’ll get there eventually. That being said, I’ll probably keep running around Parktown North, but as for the obsessive teenager running around my head…
Well, I'm kicking that little twit to the curb.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Monday, March 17, 2008
Top Five?
Adventures in India
On one of our first nights in India, I asked everyone to list their top five vacations. Fortunately, we are a spoiled and well-travelled bunch so we had quite a few to choose from. The week spent in Mexico for Darby and Dave’s wedding was a unanimous choice. The week we all spent together in South Africa was another (back before I called SA ‘home’). I listed my Contiki trip around Europe with the ‘goddesses.’ Darby said her first trip to Mexico, when she learned to scuba dive. Dave mentioned his trip to Korea; Roger said the six weeks he spent in Spain when he was eighteen. We talked about other vacations, never really deciding on the official top five (but that’s not really the point, is it?). As we wrapped up the conversation, Darby said she wondered if our current adventure would make it into the top five…
Just two weeks later as we sat in a bar in Mumbai, we revisited the conversation. Did our time in India make it into the top five? Would this go down as one of our favorite vacations? And what exactly makes a vacation great? We all agreed that while there was so much more to see of India, it wouldn’t be somewhere we would rush back to. Yes, we’d all like to see more of it, but none of us were dying to come back any time soon. Did that mean it wasn’t a good vacation? Well…no…but top five? It was left undecided.
Our flight back to Joburg left Mumbai on February 15th at 2 o’clock in the morning. We had an ocean front Valentine’s Day dinner with Darby and Dave before catching a taxi to the airport. We arrived at the airport just after midnight, and we were waiting in line to scan our luggage when an Indian man in the airport uniform came and got us out of line. We followed without question, assuming we were in the wrong line. The man brought us to another scanner, marched us to the front of the line and put our bags through. I felt somewhat confused, but after two weeks in India I had learned not to question the oddities. The man stamped our bags with the security tag and walked us over to the ticket counter where he turned to Roger with an expectant look. Roger went to his pocket and pulled out twenty Rupees and offered it to the man, but apparently, this man had a different figure in mind. He looked at the twenty Rupees with disdain. Refusing to take the money, he argued that his service was worth more than that because the line was very long. I clenched my fist in anger, though I shouldn’t have been 
surprised. It was the trademark move in India – force the tourist to accept your service, then demand your price. Roger just shrugged and explained that he was leaving the country and had no more Rupees. The man started to walk away – leaving Roger holding the twenty Rupees. But when Roger went to put the money back in his pocket the man quickly turned back to us and snatched the money from Roger’s hand. We watched him go back to the long line and guide some other unsuspecting tourist to the front of the queue.
My blood boiled with anger. But I wasn’t just angry with that man, I was angry with all of the men and women who had used similar tactics during our time in India. The man at Fatephur Sikri who dragged us through the fort then demanded eight hundred Rupees. The man on the side of the road who forced his monkey on my sister’s head, then insisted on a thousand Rupees when Dave snapped a photo (said photo would be inserted here had my useless sister managed to email it to me!). The tour guide who showed us the souvenir shops (where he earned commission) instead of the Agra Fort. The vendors who shoved their goods in our faces, refusing to accept a polite 'no' as an answer. I quickly learned to ignore anyone who might speak to me on the street…to avert my eyes from everyone lest anyone think they might have something I needed or wanted. The whole thing infuriated me…India had forced me to become a bitch.
Roger and I made our way through airport security, my blood still bubbling with anger. The airport, even after midnight, was buzzing with activity. The gate was swarming with people and my stomach churned in response to that distinctly Mumbai smell …a mixture of body odor, spices, urine and smoke. We hurried through a pile of sleeping travelers to the opposite side of the large waiting room and found two cramped seats.
I’m hot. It smells. I’m irritable. I desperately want to board my flight and get back to Joburg, a place much more like America than I previously realized.
Once on the plane, I start to relax. It’s late but I can’t help but do a bit of reflecting. My relief to be headed back to Joburg surprises me and I wonder if this means my vacation wasn’t all that great. After all, shouldn’t you be disappointed when a really good vacation is over?
But then I think about the memories we’ve made over the last few weeks. I think about watching the Superbowl at six a.m. over breakfast in Dave and Darby’s cubbyhole of a room in Delhi. I think about our driver teaching us how to say thank you in Hindi and the concierge at the hotel going out to buy us beers because the hotel bar was closed. I think about the strange karma dispensed by our hotels in India – alternately granting me and Roger, then Dave and Darby, the better room (though Dave getting electrocuted by a lamp in the Alsisair Haveli may have trumped the two twin beds assigned to Roger and I). I remember Dave snoring at the Raj Mandir while the rest of us watched a Bollywood movie. I laugh at the memory of the eleven year old boy who drove Roger and I around Jaipur in a bicycle rickshaw. I remember the day of the All India Carom Championship (which Roger and I won – despite some post tournament questions regarding the official rules). 
I find myself giggling about the raw chicken breast mysteriously placed outside of Darby and Dave’s tent in the desert. Was it a curse? And what does it mean? I think about wandering around the bizarre “Mother of All Night Markets” in Goa. I blush at the memory of my high-viz massage. I think about Roger and Dave playing volleyball with the locals at Baga beach while Darby and I solved the world’s problems over eighteen thousand Kingfishers. I think about going to Leopold’s café in Mumbai and the sports bar around the corner where I went on a mini-tirade 
about how everyone in India wants to screw the tourists (I vaguely remember shouting “I’m from Snellville…where you don’t get screwed!” as we stumbled back to the hotel). I think about Dave challenging me to a wrestling match that night to help me release some of my anger (which he won. But only two out of three…I got him that one time!) I think about everything that the four of us have seen and experienced together and I have no doubt that this has been an incredible two weeks.
So does it make my top five?
I think so.
Two weeks in a strange land with three of my favorite people on the planet...
How could it not?
Part IV
On one of our first nights in India, I asked everyone to list their top five vacations. Fortunately, we are a spoiled and well-travelled bunch so we had quite a few to choose from. The week spent in Mexico for Darby and Dave’s wedding was a unanimous choice. The week we all spent together in South Africa was another (back before I called SA ‘home’). I listed my Contiki trip around Europe with the ‘goddesses.’ Darby said her first trip to Mexico, when she learned to scuba dive. Dave mentioned his trip to Korea; Roger said the six weeks he spent in Spain when he was eighteen. We talked about other vacations, never really deciding on the official top five (but that’s not really the point, is it?). As we wrapped up the conversation, Darby said she wondered if our current adventure would make it into the top five…Just two weeks later as we sat in a bar in Mumbai, we revisited the conversation. Did our time in India make it into the top five? Would this go down as one of our favorite vacations? And what exactly makes a vacation great? We all agreed that while there was so much more to see of India, it wouldn’t be somewhere we would rush back to. Yes, we’d all like to see more of it, but none of us were dying to come back any time soon. Did that mean it wasn’t a good vacation? Well…no…but top five? It was left undecided.
Our flight back to Joburg left Mumbai on February 15th at 2 o’clock in the morning. We had an ocean front Valentine’s Day dinner with Darby and Dave before catching a taxi to the airport. We arrived at the airport just after midnight, and we were waiting in line to scan our luggage when an Indian man in the airport uniform came and got us out of line. We followed without question, assuming we were in the wrong line. The man brought us to another scanner, marched us to the front of the line and put our bags through. I felt somewhat confused, but after two weeks in India I had learned not to question the oddities. The man stamped our bags with the security tag and walked us over to the ticket counter where he turned to Roger with an expectant look. Roger went to his pocket and pulled out twenty Rupees and offered it to the man, but apparently, this man had a different figure in mind. He looked at the twenty Rupees with disdain. Refusing to take the money, he argued that his service was worth more than that because the line was very long. I clenched my fist in anger, though I shouldn’t have been 
surprised. It was the trademark move in India – force the tourist to accept your service, then demand your price. Roger just shrugged and explained that he was leaving the country and had no more Rupees. The man started to walk away – leaving Roger holding the twenty Rupees. But when Roger went to put the money back in his pocket the man quickly turned back to us and snatched the money from Roger’s hand. We watched him go back to the long line and guide some other unsuspecting tourist to the front of the queue.My blood boiled with anger. But I wasn’t just angry with that man, I was angry with all of the men and women who had used similar tactics during our time in India. The man at Fatephur Sikri who dragged us through the fort then demanded eight hundred Rupees. The man on the side of the road who forced his monkey on my sister’s head, then insisted on a thousand Rupees when Dave snapped a photo (said photo would be inserted here had my useless sister managed to email it to me!). The tour guide who showed us the souvenir shops (where he earned commission) instead of the Agra Fort. The vendors who shoved their goods in our faces, refusing to accept a polite 'no' as an answer. I quickly learned to ignore anyone who might speak to me on the street…to avert my eyes from everyone lest anyone think they might have something I needed or wanted. The whole thing infuriated me…India had forced me to become a bitch.
Roger and I made our way through airport security, my blood still bubbling with anger. The airport, even after midnight, was buzzing with activity. The gate was swarming with people and my stomach churned in response to that distinctly Mumbai smell …a mixture of body odor, spices, urine and smoke. We hurried through a pile of sleeping travelers to the opposite side of the large waiting room and found two cramped seats.I’m hot. It smells. I’m irritable. I desperately want to board my flight and get back to Joburg, a place much more like America than I previously realized.
Once on the plane, I start to relax. It’s late but I can’t help but do a bit of reflecting. My relief to be headed back to Joburg surprises me and I wonder if this means my vacation wasn’t all that great. After all, shouldn’t you be disappointed when a really good vacation is over?
But then I think about the memories we’ve made over the last few weeks. I think about watching the Superbowl at six a.m. over breakfast in Dave and Darby’s cubbyhole of a room in Delhi. I think about our driver teaching us how to say thank you in Hindi and the concierge at the hotel going out to buy us beers because the hotel bar was closed. I think about the strange karma dispensed by our hotels in India – alternately granting me and Roger, then Dave and Darby, the better room (though Dave getting electrocuted by a lamp in the Alsisair Haveli may have trumped the two twin beds assigned to Roger and I). I remember Dave snoring at the Raj Mandir while the rest of us watched a Bollywood movie. I laugh at the memory of the eleven year old boy who drove Roger and I around Jaipur in a bicycle rickshaw. I remember the day of the All India Carom Championship (which Roger and I won – despite some post tournament questions regarding the official rules). I find myself giggling about the raw chicken breast mysteriously placed outside of Darby and Dave’s tent in the desert. Was it a curse? And what does it mean? I think about wandering around the bizarre “Mother of All Night Markets” in Goa. I blush at the memory of my high-viz massage. I think about Roger and Dave playing volleyball with the locals at Baga beach while Darby and I solved the world’s problems over eighteen thousand Kingfishers. I think about going to Leopold’s café in Mumbai and the sports bar around the corner where I went on a mini-tirade 
about how everyone in India wants to screw the tourists (I vaguely remember shouting “I’m from Snellville…where you don’t get screwed!” as we stumbled back to the hotel). I think about Dave challenging me to a wrestling match that night to help me release some of my anger (which he won. But only two out of three…I got him that one time!) I think about everything that the four of us have seen and experienced together and I have no doubt that this has been an incredible two weeks.So does it make my top five?
I think so.
Two weeks in a strange land with three of my favorite people on the planet...
How could it not?
Sunday, March 9, 2008
High-Viz Massage
Adventures in India
Part III
Ah, Goa. Three nights of luxury vacation packed into two weeks of serious travel. After three nights in dirty Delhi, one night in the tourist hell that was Agra (home of the Taj Mahal), two nights in bustling Jaipur, and one night in the desert… our arrival in Goa was like breaking the surface after a claustrophobic scuba dive in murky water.
Perhaps appropriately, on our first morning in Goa that’s exactly what we did – scuba diving. We left our fancy-pants boutique hotel at the crack of dawn and drove to Panjim where we had arranged to go diving. Unfortunately, the Arabian Sea has the transparency of milk. Our dive leaders prepared us for “low visibility,” or “low-viz,” diving.
More like “no-viz” if you ask me.
Needless to say, we abandoned the dive quickly and spent the day drinking Kingfishers at Baga beach instead. Much better.
On our second morning in Goa, Roger and I were having breakfast by the pool when Lumen, concierge extraordinaire, came to greet us. She inquired as to how we slept, had we enjoyed the previous evening, and about our plans for the day. She offered suggestions that might interest us, one being a massage at the hotel spa. Roger and I were quick to accept and Lumen arranged for an eleven o’clock appointment.
We abandoned our chairs by the pool at the appropriate time and walked down the leafy path to the stone cottage. Two small Indian men greeted us and asked us to wait under the trees while they prepared our rooms. A few minutes later I was following my masseuse into an earthy room with stone walls. The breeze gently lifted the linen curtains as I inhaled the spicy smell of aromatherapy. I looked to the small Indian man for instructions, but he was digging around in a cabinet. When he turned to me, he held what looked like a Kleenex on a string.
“Put on like this,” he said, holding the tissue triangle to his crotch. “Tie behind back with this between.” My eyes grew wide as he demonstrated how the strip of material dangling from the triangle should be threaded between my legs and tucked into a string tied behind my back. I nodded my understanding and reached for the tissue diaper in horror. “Lie face down. On top, yes?” the man directed before ducking out the door. On top? I reluctantly removed my sarong and bikini, then secured the tissue triangle in place. I took a deep breath and climbed up on the table, praying he planned to cover me with another tissue before he got started.
“You want me underneath the sheet, right?” I heard Roger shout from the next room.
Dammit! I had it all wrong. I scrambled off the table, my heart pounding, certain that the moment I stood up would be the moment my small Indian man would decide I’d had enough time to get settled and reenter the room. My feet had just hit the floor when I heard someone say, “No, no. On top of sheet, Sir. Top.”
Damn, Roger! I returned to my original position, reaching behind me to ensure my two inch thick “tail” was covering as much of my bum as possible. I was still fiddling with the string when the small Indian man came back into the room. He walked to the table and immediately untied the string I had so steadfastly secured. I tried not to gasp. He then took the end of my “tail” (which I had firmly tucked into the string) and peeled it back to uncover what little had been hidden. He let the tail drop down between my thighs. I gasped again; every nerve in my body tensed. For a moment, I feared my very visible clenched butt might betray my uneasiness. I focused on keeping my butt relaxed. For whatever reason – at the time – it seemed important that I not let this small Indian man know I was feeling the slightest bit uncomfortable.
I then felt his hands on my shoulders. I exhaled; I could handle this. So, he could see my butt. So what? He might even give it a little massage, but I could cope. I reminded myself that I was a mature young woman. A world traveler! This was all perfectly normal. I tried to let my thoughts go, but after fifteen or twenty minutes, it hit me. He’s gonna ask me to turn over. Surely not, I told myself. But then – why the tissue diaper? If he was going to untie it anyway, why give it to me at all? I was essentially lying naked, face down on a table. What was the point of the tissue triangle unless to offer some sense of modesty when lying face up? I felt my body begin to tense once more. No, I couldn’t do this. If he asked me to turn over, I’d have to say 'Thanks, but no thanks.' I tried to visualize how the conversation would go, but in my imagination, the small Indian man laughed at me and later told his friends about the prude American tourist who freaked out over a little massage. Was I being a prude? I mean, sure, my bare chest would be staring up at the ceiling but did it really matter? Apparently, this small Indian man saw nakedness all the time. It was his job. And this was a respectable hotel…right?
I felt him returning my “tail” to its original position and securing the string. “Please turn over, Miss,” he whispered.
“Really?” I squeaked, but I slowly repositioned myself on the table. I kept my eyes squeezed shut and tried to breathe normally. This was all perfectly acceptable. Just go with the flow. When in Rome, right? He began at my shoulders and once again, I willed myself to relax. This was fine. It was totally fine. So, he was having a good look at my boobs – it’s not like he’d be giving me a breast massage…
GULP.
I felt his hands glide over my boobs. My eyes popped open for a brief second, but I quickly squeezed them shut in an effort to hide. Surely this wasn’t happening. He massaged my stomach for a few minutes and I told myself the worst was over. It had only been a glide. And it had been very clinical. It was fine, and more importantly, it seemed to be over.
But then he “glid” again. Suddenly, in big sweeping motions his hands were moving from my shoulders, across my chest and stomach, over my hips and down my legs to my feet, and then back up again. I randomly wondered if this move was designed to aide circulation. He did this for a few minutes before turning his attention to my left leg. My muscles slowly began to relax again, but my mind ran in circles. I wondered if Roger knew I was practically being molested. Would it upset him? Was I being molested? Or worse – was I secretly enjoying the molestation? I thought about it for a second. No. Definitely not. In fact, it may well have been the least relaxing massage I had ever received. My inner monologue wouldn’t stop! Were people actually able to relax and enjoy this sort of thing? Or did most women put the brakes on the boob-gliding nonsense by now? I mean, what would my sister do? Darby and Dave had scheduled a massage for later in the day, but if I told her about all of this – if I warned her – I knew she wouldn't go through with it. I then had a vision of not warning her, of letting her go to this small Indian man, and then acting like I knew nothing about all the naked boob-gliding. I could pretend my massage had been perfectly normal! No, that would be too cruel. And yet, I yearned to know how she would react in this situation…if she would have stopped this small Indian man by now…
Gasp.
Another boob glide. Would this torment ever end?
Finally, he covered me with yet another tissue – this one a little larger than a beach towel. He helped me off the table and guided me out of the room to the showers. I clutched the tissue towel around me with clenched fists while he turned on the water. After adjusting the temperature, he reached inside for the shampoo bottle and carefully unscrewed the top. For the love of God! This small Indian man was gonna shower with me! What the hell? I’m sorry, but this is where I draw the line…
Fortunately, I didn’t have to. He placed the open shampoo bottle on the shelf and left me in blissful privacy.
A few minutes later I heard Roger’s voice as he entered the shower area.
“You in there?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“You okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
I turned off the water and wrapped up in a towel. I stepped out of the shower and we made eye contact.
“It was…uh, different,” I whispered.
“Um, yeah,” Roger smirked.
Roger showered while I put my swimsuit back on – thrilled by the relatively extensive coverage provided by my string bikini. Roger finished and dressed, and we quickly left the spa. Once out of earshot, we burst into laughter.
“When he handed me that tiny tissue thing I almost fell over!” I exclaimed.
Roger stopped laughing. “Wait. You had a tissue thing?”
“You didn’t?”
His eyes were wide. “I didn’t have anything!”
I snickered, suddenly imagining my husband, face up on the table, letting it all hang out as a small Indian man massaged him.
Roger shook his head. “Shut up,” he muttered, laughing despite himself. “I’m totally secure in my manliness.” I laughed even harder. “Now where’s Dave? I need to exert my masculinity with something competitive involving a ball.”
We found Darby and Dave by the pool and confessed the whole story. They promptly cancelled their appointments with the small Indian men.
“At least we’ve learned something,” Dave said, still laughing. “Goa may be the land of ‘low-viz’ diving, but it’s obviously home of the ‘high-viz’ massage.”
Well…I’ve been there and done that. And now that I’ve cleared my conscious with this very public confession, I feel much better about the whole thing. No shame here, that’s for sure. However, next time I’m in India, I’ll be sure to specify a “low-viz” massage.
Part III
Ah, Goa. Three nights of luxury vacation packed into two weeks of serious travel. After three nights in dirty Delhi, one night in the tourist hell that was Agra (home of the Taj Mahal), two nights in bustling Jaipur, and one night in the desert… our arrival in Goa was like breaking the surface after a claustrophobic scuba dive in murky water.
Perhaps appropriately, on our first morning in Goa that’s exactly what we did – scuba diving. We left our fancy-pants boutique hotel at the crack of dawn and drove to Panjim where we had arranged to go diving. Unfortunately, the Arabian Sea has the transparency of milk. Our dive leaders prepared us for “low visibility,” or “low-viz,” diving.
More like “no-viz” if you ask me.
Needless to say, we abandoned the dive quickly and spent the day drinking Kingfishers at Baga beach instead. Much better.
On our second morning in Goa, Roger and I were having breakfast by the pool when Lumen, concierge extraordinaire, came to greet us. She inquired as to how we slept, had we enjoyed the previous evening, and about our plans for the day. She offered suggestions that might interest us, one being a massage at the hotel spa. Roger and I were quick to accept and Lumen arranged for an eleven o’clock appointment.We abandoned our chairs by the pool at the appropriate time and walked down the leafy path to the stone cottage. Two small Indian men greeted us and asked us to wait under the trees while they prepared our rooms. A few minutes later I was following my masseuse into an earthy room with stone walls. The breeze gently lifted the linen curtains as I inhaled the spicy smell of aromatherapy. I looked to the small Indian man for instructions, but he was digging around in a cabinet. When he turned to me, he held what looked like a Kleenex on a string.
“Put on like this,” he said, holding the tissue triangle to his crotch. “Tie behind back with this between.” My eyes grew wide as he demonstrated how the strip of material dangling from the triangle should be threaded between my legs and tucked into a string tied behind my back. I nodded my understanding and reached for the tissue diaper in horror. “Lie face down. On top, yes?” the man directed before ducking out the door. On top? I reluctantly removed my sarong and bikini, then secured the tissue triangle in place. I took a deep breath and climbed up on the table, praying he planned to cover me with another tissue before he got started.
“You want me underneath the sheet, right?” I heard Roger shout from the next room.
Dammit! I had it all wrong. I scrambled off the table, my heart pounding, certain that the moment I stood up would be the moment my small Indian man would decide I’d had enough time to get settled and reenter the room. My feet had just hit the floor when I heard someone say, “No, no. On top of sheet, Sir. Top.”
Damn, Roger! I returned to my original position, reaching behind me to ensure my two inch thick “tail” was covering as much of my bum as possible. I was still fiddling with the string when the small Indian man came back into the room. He walked to the table and immediately untied the string I had so steadfastly secured. I tried not to gasp. He then took the end of my “tail” (which I had firmly tucked into the string) and peeled it back to uncover what little had been hidden. He let the tail drop down between my thighs. I gasped again; every nerve in my body tensed. For a moment, I feared my very visible clenched butt might betray my uneasiness. I focused on keeping my butt relaxed. For whatever reason – at the time – it seemed important that I not let this small Indian man know I was feeling the slightest bit uncomfortable.
I then felt his hands on my shoulders. I exhaled; I could handle this. So, he could see my butt. So what? He might even give it a little massage, but I could cope. I reminded myself that I was a mature young woman. A world traveler! This was all perfectly normal. I tried to let my thoughts go, but after fifteen or twenty minutes, it hit me. He’s gonna ask me to turn over. Surely not, I told myself. But then – why the tissue diaper? If he was going to untie it anyway, why give it to me at all? I was essentially lying naked, face down on a table. What was the point of the tissue triangle unless to offer some sense of modesty when lying face up? I felt my body begin to tense once more. No, I couldn’t do this. If he asked me to turn over, I’d have to say 'Thanks, but no thanks.' I tried to visualize how the conversation would go, but in my imagination, the small Indian man laughed at me and later told his friends about the prude American tourist who freaked out over a little massage. Was I being a prude? I mean, sure, my bare chest would be staring up at the ceiling but did it really matter? Apparently, this small Indian man saw nakedness all the time. It was his job. And this was a respectable hotel…right?
I felt him returning my “tail” to its original position and securing the string. “Please turn over, Miss,” he whispered.
“Really?” I squeaked, but I slowly repositioned myself on the table. I kept my eyes squeezed shut and tried to breathe normally. This was all perfectly acceptable. Just go with the flow. When in Rome, right? He began at my shoulders and once again, I willed myself to relax. This was fine. It was totally fine. So, he was having a good look at my boobs – it’s not like he’d be giving me a breast massage…
GULP.
I felt his hands glide over my boobs. My eyes popped open for a brief second, but I quickly squeezed them shut in an effort to hide. Surely this wasn’t happening. He massaged my stomach for a few minutes and I told myself the worst was over. It had only been a glide. And it had been very clinical. It was fine, and more importantly, it seemed to be over.
But then he “glid” again. Suddenly, in big sweeping motions his hands were moving from my shoulders, across my chest and stomach, over my hips and down my legs to my feet, and then back up again. I randomly wondered if this move was designed to aide circulation. He did this for a few minutes before turning his attention to my left leg. My muscles slowly began to relax again, but my mind ran in circles. I wondered if Roger knew I was practically being molested. Would it upset him? Was I being molested? Or worse – was I secretly enjoying the molestation? I thought about it for a second. No. Definitely not. In fact, it may well have been the least relaxing massage I had ever received. My inner monologue wouldn’t stop! Were people actually able to relax and enjoy this sort of thing? Or did most women put the brakes on the boob-gliding nonsense by now? I mean, what would my sister do? Darby and Dave had scheduled a massage for later in the day, but if I told her about all of this – if I warned her – I knew she wouldn't go through with it. I then had a vision of not warning her, of letting her go to this small Indian man, and then acting like I knew nothing about all the naked boob-gliding. I could pretend my massage had been perfectly normal! No, that would be too cruel. And yet, I yearned to know how she would react in this situation…if she would have stopped this small Indian man by now…
Gasp.
Another boob glide. Would this torment ever end?
Finally, he covered me with yet another tissue – this one a little larger than a beach towel. He helped me off the table and guided me out of the room to the showers. I clutched the tissue towel around me with clenched fists while he turned on the water. After adjusting the temperature, he reached inside for the shampoo bottle and carefully unscrewed the top. For the love of God! This small Indian man was gonna shower with me! What the hell? I’m sorry, but this is where I draw the line…
Fortunately, I didn’t have to. He placed the open shampoo bottle on the shelf and left me in blissful privacy.
A few minutes later I heard Roger’s voice as he entered the shower area.
“You in there?” he asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“You okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
I turned off the water and wrapped up in a towel. I stepped out of the shower and we made eye contact.
“It was…uh, different,” I whispered.
“Um, yeah,” Roger smirked.
Roger showered while I put my swimsuit back on – thrilled by the relatively extensive coverage provided by my string bikini. Roger finished and dressed, and we quickly left the spa. Once out of earshot, we burst into laughter.
“When he handed me that tiny tissue thing I almost fell over!” I exclaimed.
Roger stopped laughing. “Wait. You had a tissue thing?”
“You didn’t?”
His eyes were wide. “I didn’t have anything!”
I snickered, suddenly imagining my husband, face up on the table, letting it all hang out as a small Indian man massaged him.
Roger shook his head. “Shut up,” he muttered, laughing despite himself. “I’m totally secure in my manliness.” I laughed even harder. “Now where’s Dave? I need to exert my masculinity with something competitive involving a ball.”
We found Darby and Dave by the pool and confessed the whole story. They promptly cancelled their appointments with the small Indian men.
“At least we’ve learned something,” Dave said, still laughing. “Goa may be the land of ‘low-viz’ diving, but it’s obviously home of the ‘high-viz’ massage.”
Well…I’ve been there and done that. And now that I’ve cleared my conscious with this very public confession, I feel much better about the whole thing. No shame here, that’s for sure. However, next time I’m in India, I’ll be sure to specify a “low-viz” massage.Monday, March 3, 2008
Enjoy the Ride
I know I promised you something meaningful about India this week, but as usual, I digress. The thing is, in the last six weeks I’ve spent some much needed time with some of my favorite women – first in Atlanta, then with my sister in India, and this past week with a girlfriend visitng me from the UK (more details on the Melvis Reunion at a later date). As usual, these women have waived the magical wand of female friendship and reinforced all the reasons I need them in my life. Not only do they offer love, laughter and copious amounts of wine, they challenge me to be a better person. They hold up a mirror, reminding me of who I am and who I want to be. So forgive me for making you wait yet another week for the story of my High-Viz Indian Massage, but all this female bonding has me asking myself some tough questions.
Looking back over the last six weeks, I detect a theme in the conversations with my girlfriends. I find myself talking about what I want next for my life. Where I will go, what I will do. What should I do next to ensure my future happiness? It's proof that I have some seriously patient girlfriends, because I’m sure this is a conversation I’ve been having most of my life. But I’m tired of it. At what point will I finally say, “Yes, this is what it’s all about. This is what I’ve been waiting for. THIS is living.”?
Some people come out of the womb with this attitude, and others never seem to get there at all. I think most people, however, are a bit like me – they have flashes of this outlook but struggle to accept that the point, or the moment they are looking for doesn’t exist. Happiness isn’t a place or a destination. It’s found in the journey. Now, I’m not trying to claim that as an original idea, but I am trying to adopt the philosophy, to embrace it a bit more.
I’ve spent the last year contemplating my decision to move to South Africa. Was it a good one? Would I do it again? Do I have regrets? How much longer should I stay? Where will we go when we leave? What will we do? Etc, etc. The truth is, I’ve been so busy thinking about whether or not I’m happy with my life, I’ve hardly been living it. I’ve been in a sort of self-inflicted purgatory, a constant state of in between. I’m no longer in my old life, and yet I’m already planning my next one.
It’s evident, even in the little things. My 'cottage' for instance. My walls are bare, my cabinets empty. I have no motivation to decorate or “nest,” if you will. While in India, Roger and I decided to buy a carpet, and yet I couldn’t get excited about anything. Darby suggested that perhaps my hesitance to decorate my place in Joburg stems from my reluctance to accept that I live here, that this is more than an extended vacation. This is my life. Taking it a step further, last night Kirsty suggested that my difficulty in making girlfriends here in Africa might come from a reluctance to “decorate my life with people.” Could she be right? Is my loneliness self-inflicted? Could I be missing what’s right in front of me because I can’t take my eyes off what might happen next?
But I don't want to be that person. I'm ready to change. I want to start living. But is it enough to recognize the problem? To acknowledge a need for change? How do I actually do something about it? How do I stop looking forward and start looking around?
Now as both my mother and my husband will tell you – I don’t usually respond well to unsolicited advice. I emphasize unsolicited (my husband believes whining implies solicitation, but I beg to differ). In any case, this time I’m asking for it. Surely, among my oh-so-many fans someone will have a few helpful tips on how I might embrace this new philosophy of mine. So I’m asking for help here (Clearly, I’m also asking for comments!).
A few months ago, one of my favorite people on the planet said to me (actually, I believe it was a comment on this very blog), “We see the magic in our lives in the moments of our past.” Her words are devastatingly true…and that’s the problem. I don’t want to miss the magic. I want to recognize the magic right here, right now. This is my life…my uncertain, unstructured, unbelievable South African life. And a year into it, I think I’m finally ready to hang on tight and start enjoying the ride…
Looking back over the last six weeks, I detect a theme in the conversations with my girlfriends. I find myself talking about what I want next for my life. Where I will go, what I will do. What should I do next to ensure my future happiness? It's proof that I have some seriously patient girlfriends, because I’m sure this is a conversation I’ve been having most of my life. But I’m tired of it. At what point will I finally say, “Yes, this is what it’s all about. This is what I’ve been waiting for. THIS is living.”?
Some people come out of the womb with this attitude, and others never seem to get there at all. I think most people, however, are a bit like me – they have flashes of this outlook but struggle to accept that the point, or the moment they are looking for doesn’t exist. Happiness isn’t a place or a destination. It’s found in the journey. Now, I’m not trying to claim that as an original idea, but I am trying to adopt the philosophy, to embrace it a bit more.
I’ve spent the last year contemplating my decision to move to South Africa. Was it a good one? Would I do it again? Do I have regrets? How much longer should I stay? Where will we go when we leave? What will we do? Etc, etc. The truth is, I’ve been so busy thinking about whether or not I’m happy with my life, I’ve hardly been living it. I’ve been in a sort of self-inflicted purgatory, a constant state of in between. I’m no longer in my old life, and yet I’m already planning my next one.
It’s evident, even in the little things. My 'cottage' for instance. My walls are bare, my cabinets empty. I have no motivation to decorate or “nest,” if you will. While in India, Roger and I decided to buy a carpet, and yet I couldn’t get excited about anything. Darby suggested that perhaps my hesitance to decorate my place in Joburg stems from my reluctance to accept that I live here, that this is more than an extended vacation. This is my life. Taking it a step further, last night Kirsty suggested that my difficulty in making girlfriends here in Africa might come from a reluctance to “decorate my life with people.” Could she be right? Is my loneliness self-inflicted? Could I be missing what’s right in front of me because I can’t take my eyes off what might happen next?
But I don't want to be that person. I'm ready to change. I want to start living. But is it enough to recognize the problem? To acknowledge a need for change? How do I actually do something about it? How do I stop looking forward and start looking around?
Now as both my mother and my husband will tell you – I don’t usually respond well to unsolicited advice. I emphasize unsolicited (my husband believes whining implies solicitation, but I beg to differ). In any case, this time I’m asking for it. Surely, among my oh-so-many fans someone will have a few helpful tips on how I might embrace this new philosophy of mine. So I’m asking for help here (Clearly, I’m also asking for comments!).
A few months ago, one of my favorite people on the planet said to me (actually, I believe it was a comment on this very blog), “We see the magic in our lives in the moments of our past.” Her words are devastatingly true…and that’s the problem. I don’t want to miss the magic. I want to recognize the magic right here, right now. This is my life…my uncertain, unstructured, unbelievable South African life. And a year into it, I think I’m finally ready to hang on tight and start enjoying the ride…
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