It is still June 19, 1998 isn’t it?

*pant* *pant* *pant*

Oh …. I feel myself getting pulled into a tunnel. The light looks so peaceful. I’m coming light. I’m coming.

Seriously. I have to either work out a lot more or a lot less. Right now, I’m leaning towards less.

Whew!

Monday found me hurting a little, but it was a good kind of hurt, so I was happy with it. Tuesday, I was going to lift again, but I was still kind of feeling it, and I wanted to give my muscles a chance to recover a bit more. Fortunately though, when I got out of work, the sun was still hanging beautifully bright and low in the sky. It was still day (more or less) (yea!). This called for a nice long walk.

Here’s the thing though, once I started moving vigorously, the soreness in my chest magically transformed into a heart attack. I kept telling my inner hypochondriac that what I was feeling was just remaining soreness from lifting, and my inner hypochondriac resolutely refused to even consider that possibility. It was a heart attack pure and simple.

So there I was, determined not to stop even though I knew on some deep inner level that I was walking through death’s very door. What could I do? I started trying to walk in such a way that I wasn’t stretching or tweaking my chest muscles. I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried that, but let me just say for the record that it is almost exactly impossible. I’m sure it makes you look pretty silly too although frankly that was the least of my concerns what with breathing my last breath and all.

At one point, I heard a siren going past, and my fevered brain filled in the gaps with a fantasy in which I was being rushed to the hospital, and my current state of awareness was just a fantasy as my oxygen starved brain tried to relive the circumstances that brought me to my unfortunate end.

I managed to finish off my walk. Now if I could just find some way to do the same with that part of my mind that invents diseases and crap like that. I bet an ice pick would do it, but I have a sneaking suspicion that, that particular cure might be a little worse than the disease. Maybe pills.

When I was younger, I thought it was self-defecating. I still prefer that as a phrase. It so perfectly describes what is happening. I should start a movement or something (I didn’t intended that to be a pun, but recognizing it as such, it tickles me more than it should).

On This Day

* Purchased at a soul eating Super Walmart that rests in the midst of the desolate sprawl that is suburban Omaha “Oh My God It’s Cold” Nebraska, just a few miles and a few and 30 years from the point of my first breath.

I know; the work out lasted 25 minutes, your heart rate is up, your face is red (and disturbingly numb), and you did feel a little light-headed for a while there. That does qualify as a workout. Still, don’t be a little punk. If you’re going to do it, then do it. Show some heart. Show some intensity for christ’s sake. And, don’t quit. I want at least 3 solid months out of you. I want you back to pulling on Wednesday.

Alright, now go get yourself a protein shake, and relax and enjoy the free Radiohead concert on Direct TV.

And, do you suppose that’s evidence that my body has now rested all that it would like to rest? Do you think I’m caught up and bright eyed and bushy tailed. Nope (well, except for the tail part or maybe just the bushy part). I feel like I’m trying to think through about 13 gallons of molasses this morning. Stupid body.

More…

See, I got some bad genes that made me really hairy. I mean like really, REALLY hairy. I’m talking if Robin Williams and Ed Asner had a love child that was exposed to radiation that caused a horrible genetic mutation kind of hairy. I’ve always been kind of self-conscious about it because I know most people don’t find that kind of thing all that attractive.

Anyway, tonight I decided I was finally going to do something about it. I’ve been sort of longingly looking at that laser hair removal ’cause it’s all hi-tech and Sci-Fi. I love me the hi-tech and Sci-Fi. Everything I read though says that it’s not permanent. It only lasts a year or two, and it’s really expensive and that’s just too much of a nod towards vanity. I’ve never seriously considered waxing because, just NO. I have seriously considered a depilatory which is the route I decided to take tonight. So, off I trundle to the store with the goal of picking myself up a bottle of Nair.

Turns out Nair comes in a lovely pink bottle, so if you don’t already feel a little like a woman just going into the isle to find the stuff, once you find it you’ll know you’re a woman. A woman with lots and lots of hair on her back. I get to the register, and there are these two girls behind me giggling and talking in Spanish. You know how when people are chatting in a language you don’t speak, you kind of get the feeling maybe they’re talking about you? Yeah well, try that sometime when you’re actually doing something you feel a little embarrassed to be doing.

Anyway, I bought it and got home, and now I have another problem. What should I do about my chest? Do I hit the stomach and leave the leave the chest hairy since society seems to be at least a little OK with hair on the chest for some reason. Same hair people, but anyway whatever. I decided that I’d start with my stomach since that was easy to see and get to. Then I was going to hit the back and then maybe come back for the chest depending on how it looked.

They say to lather this stuff on thick and goopy. They ain’t kidding. My first shot at this, I think I rubbed it in a little too much and left it a little too thin. I waited the 4 minutes to try scrapping the hair off, but it was coming out in really spotty patches. So now my stomach looks a little like I’ve been through chemo. I couldn’t leave it like that. I figured I’d better hit it again. They say whatever you do, don’t leave it on more than 10 minutes. Now my question — if you’re going to do it twice, is that a cumulative figure?

Yes. Yes it is. Now, I’m starting to feel a little burning sensation on my stomach. But, I decided what the hell. I’m a man. I’ve had a second degree sunburn before. What’s a little chemical burn next to that? I gutted it out and waited through the burn.

Finally, I jump in the shower to wash the stuff off, and the hair is coming away leaving my belly looking all red and baby like. Cool, this may work. Oh, but some of those clumps of Nair soaked hair residue are accumulating in areas where I don’t want to have burning chemicals, so now I’m frantically rinsing and wiping and desperately wondering how much contact is going to be too much contact.

I’m also noticing that there are a couple of areas that I must not have hit like my belly button, and even where I did get it, there are these tiny little hairs like razor stubble that are just going to annoy the hell out of me I’m sure. I wasn’t about to slather on another coat though. I was already exceeding the maximum dosage.

So, I dry off, and now I have to deal with my back. I come to discover that there are huge areas of my back that I just can’t reach. Jets could land on these strips with absolutely no problems. Entire freeway systems could be constructed without having to apply eminent domain to any of the neighboring housing communities. We’re talking large areas of back completley untouched and completely unreachable.

This is bad for several reasons. Number one, it means I’ve never really been able to clean my back. I had no idea. I guess it’s a good thing backs don’t smell. Number two it means that while I now have areas of my back that are smooth and red, I also have areas that are quite obviously still hairy. I have to say – that seems worse than when I started. I tried a couple of times craning and straining and twisting to get my hands back there. I now have some seriously burned areas where I was able to keep reaching repeatedly, but large swaths of my back are as unexplored as some parts of Africa. I’m beat. I’m on fire. So are my eyes by the way. I was intensely conscious of not rubbing my eyes even though they naturally started itching as soon as I got that crap on my hands. My eyes are still burning for some reason though. I half expect to wake up completely blind tomorrow.

I think I may need to find a friend who can help me finish the job. I don’t think I’ll be trying this again. If you have a laser though let me know because I’m pretty sure I could soup that baby up to be just what I need.

Update: Well, I engaged the enemy for a second round, and I’m sorry to report that despite valiant efforts, at the end of the melee, it was Nair 2 Will 0.

I managed to clean up a bunch of my back. It’s burning though. The burning before was but a subtle prelude, sort of like sniffing the cork before enjoying a fine bottle of wine. Also, although my MacGyver back reaching tool seemed perfect in concept it lacked a little in execution. I was flinging pink glop everywhere. My bathroom looks a little like peptobismal factory exploded. I still managed to miss a couple of stray areas as well. It’s a problem, but it’s better than it was.

My chest did not fair nearly so well. It turns out that being the studly man of a man that I am, my chest hair is actually impervious to Nair. Well, I managed to take out a couple of strips here or there — you know the weak hairs that really wanted to be leg hairs, but their parents made them go into chests cause that’s where all the “money” is. Those are the exception though. Most of the hairs laughed off this attack like the Germans walking into France.

My chest though – not nearly so strong as my chest hair. OH MY GOD!!!! Burning? Yep I got that. Red, ugly looking hives? Oh yea we got that too. And the nipples? I didn’t give nearly enough thought to the nipples. Oh, I sort of knew to stay away from them if I could. I just didn’t thing that the barest contact would have them flaming up like two red giants. We’re talking blazing hot nuclear furnaces here.

To begin with, there was just an awful lot of ass-play. It was a one hour, full-body massage, and for something like 20 minutes of that time, her hands were all over my ass. Don’t get me wrong. If some woman wants to fondle my butt, I’m generally not going to complain too much. But, I’d really rather it was a friend or some random stranger or anybody really except somebody I’m paying because the money just makes the whole thing feel weird somehow.

Plus, that’s not really where I carry most of my stress, so I’m not sure I really see the point. As in most situations like this, I’m just going to pretend that it was because she found me irresistible and figured professionalism be damned. If you’ve been for your own massage/grope session, and that’s really the way those things go every time I’ll thank you to not disillusion me.

Now, the whole nudity thing really wasn’t that big a deal to me. I hate changing in men’s locker rooms or showering or really just standing there at the urinal even. But again, if some random women wants me to strip down my attitude is pretty much yeah, OK — whatever.

But, the pressure points (she was an acupressurist as well) creeped me out to no end. I studied martial arts for a few years when I was a kid, so when somebody starts seeking out my pressure points, particularly the ones around my throat, my body views it as an attack and wants to defend against it. Fortunately, I can generally get my head in the way of my body, but it requires an awful lot of effort to not reverse out out it.

Also, once she started flapping my arms around and sticking her fingers in my ears it was all I could do to keep from laughing uncontrollably. I’d like to just lay there and relax with a whatever kind of attitude, but really at some point you start wondering if you should ask where Allen Funt is because it’s really just getting past the point of absurdity.

Afterwards, I did feel kind of relaxed for a few minutes. It didn’t take long though before the old stresses and pains (mostly pains) started seeping back into my lower back and shoulders. I kind of live with this low-grade pain in the back of my head all the time. It just becomes a part of you, but take it away, and then when it comes back you’re like 1000 times more aware of it. It’s actually sort of a drag.

Plus, she coated me with these massage oils, and I’m leaving a sticky, smelly trail of slime on everything I’m touching. It’s like I’m a giant snail or something. A giant, Nancy-boy smelling, sticky, slimy snail. I think I need a shower or a squeegee.