I had an accident. I passed out, hit my head and it was lights out. The result was a wicked concussion and a bathroom that looked like a crime scene. Apparently the head has a lot of little blood vessels and can gush more blood than Dexter Morgan’s kill room.
My husband discovered the lovely splattered hemoglobin in the morning. Somehow I managed to crawl back to bed on my hands and knees, unaware of what was happening. The doctor called it "Retrograde Amnesia.” Even in my wonked out state, I thought: what a great name for a rock band!
I blame my blackout on Jon Stewart. I was watching the Daily Show, the day after the mid-term elections, and I have no doubt I passed out from "Democalypse 2014." Words such as “shellacking", “bloodbath”, “seismic shift"... even my doctor said that could have done it.
Sore and battered, on day 3, I decided to go for a hot stone massage. Hubby had heard about a new place in town with great prices. FYI, Fairfield County and ahem, “great prices” is a spectacular contradiction in terms. I wanted to tell him to shove his bargain up his ass and get thee to a fancy spa, but I was in no condition to argue.
There were no fuzzy robes, bubble spa slippers or scented candles. There weren’t even doors. Partitions were made from curtains and half walls. You could hear karate chopping up and down the halls and timers dinging. Really classy. What could they possibly have against clocks?
And there was this sign: "Please keep your underwear on... Thank you." Definitely a first. I felt such relief that I was wearing a cute purple pair of Fleur-T boy shorts and didn’t go commando. I know, TMI. My apologies.
I lied face down and the young lady began her work on me. It wasn’t the smooth, gentle movements of loving hands; she worked fast and furious, pummeling me like Rocky Balboa.
By this time I wondered why I have kept my underwear on. She's yanking it this way and that, stretching it well beyond its lycra limits. For 90 minutes I lied there with a colossal wedgie.
Hubby asked me if it was relaxing. Said like Kenan Thompson from SNL, Hell NO! The whole time I was lying there I was thinking about this blog. At least my head is still working. Who knows how many brain cells I left on my bathroom floor.