It looks like Chickie was the only one who noticed my absence from these pages beginning last Thursday. After she wondered in the comments whether a search party should be sent out, I tossed her a set of blog-keys. (Thanks fer fillin’ in, Chickie!)
Where was I? You may well ask. SWMBO and I, having spent the first week of the month on the beach in Cancún, had not fully satisfied our Beach Jones (which could be taken a s a play on “Jones Beach,” the shore of my Snot-Nose Days), and thus it was that we joined our friends Gary and JoAnn as well as Laura Belle and Don on a Long Weekend in Destin, Florida.
While we were in Destin, Gary and JoAnn joined SWMBO and me for a day of unbridled indulgence at Serenity by the Sea, the Fancy-Ass Spa at the Sandestin Resort. We spent the day working out in the gym, lolling in the hot tub, relaxing by the pool, roasting in the sauna, and schvitzing in the steam room...but the best part was the massage. For there is nothing quite like having your fleshy self oiled up and rubbed (mostly) all over by a total stranger.
The massage, be it Swedish, aromatherapeutic, hot stones, Reiki, or Sheiki, and Beiki, is - at least for me - a rare and treasured indulgence, as well as a unique (and completely bizarre) human institution. I heartily recommend it.
Last year, I had opted for the Swedish massage. It was extremely relaxing, but the aroma of the fish oil attracted hordes of feral cats for weeks afterward. And so this year I selected the Brazilian massage.
There’s nothing quite as invigorating as a Brazilian massage. In lieu of the traditional massage oil, the masseuse uses a blend of fine Carnauba waxes. Things got a little tense about thirty minutes in, when she started yanking clumps of hair from several rather sensitive areas, but after a while she got used to the screaming. When I was done, I was aglow...and, moreover, my entire body had the glossy shine most people associate with only the most sophisticated bowling alleys.
Some of the more filthy-minded of my Esteemed Readers will no doubt be sniggering to themselves, saying, “Betcha Elisson got him a Happy Ending on that there massage.” Sorry to disappoint, you prurient bastards, but the local Massage Talent is apparently under strict instructions to keep a safe distance from cracks, twigs, and berries - instructions that are, sadly, hammered in strongly enough so that a clandestinely proffered double sawbuck will not uproot them. (Just kidding, honey!)
If you want to experience some serenity by the sea - or behind the luncheonette - getcha a good old-fashioned rubdown!
Where was I? You may well ask. SWMBO and I, having spent the first week of the month on the beach in Cancún, had not fully satisfied our Beach Jones (which could be taken a s a play on “Jones Beach,” the shore of my Snot-Nose Days), and thus it was that we joined our friends Gary and JoAnn as well as Laura Belle and Don on a Long Weekend in Destin, Florida.
While we were in Destin, Gary and JoAnn joined SWMBO and me for a day of unbridled indulgence at Serenity by the Sea, the Fancy-Ass Spa at the Sandestin Resort. We spent the day working out in the gym, lolling in the hot tub, relaxing by the pool, roasting in the sauna, and schvitzing in the steam room...but the best part was the massage. For there is nothing quite like having your fleshy self oiled up and rubbed (mostly) all over by a total stranger.
The massage, be it Swedish, aromatherapeutic, hot stones, Reiki, or Sheiki, and Beiki, is - at least for me - a rare and treasured indulgence, as well as a unique (and completely bizarre) human institution. I heartily recommend it.
Last year, I had opted for the Swedish massage. It was extremely relaxing, but the aroma of the fish oil attracted hordes of feral cats for weeks afterward. And so this year I selected the Brazilian massage.
There’s nothing quite as invigorating as a Brazilian massage. In lieu of the traditional massage oil, the masseuse uses a blend of fine Carnauba waxes. Things got a little tense about thirty minutes in, when she started yanking clumps of hair from several rather sensitive areas, but after a while she got used to the screaming. When I was done, I was aglow...and, moreover, my entire body had the glossy shine most people associate with only the most sophisticated bowling alleys.
Some of the more filthy-minded of my Esteemed Readers will no doubt be sniggering to themselves, saying, “Betcha Elisson got him a Happy Ending on that there massage.” Sorry to disappoint, you prurient bastards, but the local Massage Talent is apparently under strict instructions to keep a safe distance from cracks, twigs, and berries - instructions that are, sadly, hammered in strongly enough so that a clandestinely proffered double sawbuck will not uproot them. (Just kidding, honey!)
If you want to experience some serenity by the sea - or behind the luncheonette - getcha a good old-fashioned rubdown!
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