Wait, What?

It seems that I have these moments frequently this semester, moments where I find myself going, Wait, what??!

Example:

Test question we're going over in class:

When should you wash your hands during the course of a massage session?
a) Before you give a massage
b) After you give a massage
c) Before and after you give a massage
d) When your hands are visibly soiled

ME: Ummm, well, I'm guessing the answer is c), but shouldn't it be ALL of them?

INSTRUCTOR: Ummmmmmm... Yes. The answer is c).

ME: Well, wouldn't it be d) as well?

INSTRUCTOR: Ummm. Well... I mean... If my hands were visibly soiled, well, I'd kinda just know that they're visibly soiled, you know?

ME: ?

INSTRUCTOR: Ok. On to question 32.

Later during a smoke break...

ME: Apparently it's not important to wash our hands if they're visibly soiled.

C (my classmate): So if someone shits on your massage table in the middle of your massage session, you're pretty much fucked, since it's not "before" and not "after" the massage. Ha ha ha.

ME: Apparently so. [laughing]

Heart Attacks and Pocket-Comb Moustaches

It does not bode well that it's only my first week of review classes and I already feel like I'm having a mini heart-attack.

Contributing factors:

1. There are only 4 people in my state science review class.


2. My instructor for this class is The Evil Witch. I actually haven't had her in such a long time that I had to doublecheck her nickname on my blog before posting it here. It is difficult for me to believe I once despised her quite so much as to nickname her The Evil Witch, but I figure, if I give it a little bit of time, I'll probably be reminded of why I chose the nickname. Thankfully she was bearable on our first day though. But she still talks incessantly about her child when, truly, no one cares.


3. Thankfully I don't think The Evil Witch remembers that she is supposed to hate me.


4. I remember that she's supposed to hate me.


5. There are only TWO people in my state massage review class. TWO PEOPLE. One of which is Yours Truly. The other of which is my girl-crush, which is both good and bad luck since a) she is my girl crush = good luck, and b) she doesn't often come to class, and if she does, it's not always on time = bad luck, as this will mean that I will frequently be the only student there. Which leads to my next point...


6. Scrub Nazi is teaching my state massage review class. On our first day, he went over EVERY SINGLE SCHOOL POLICY AGAIN as though we aren't in our last semester and haven't heard it 500 times and didn't in fact realize that a) we're required to wear scrubs, and b) no piercings. I am horrified to think that I once had a bit of a crush on the man. Horrified. He is not a BAD man, but still: horrified. I mean, seriously: the man listed off amidst his school-policy lecture the fact that we should have our fingernails cut short. And we're not actually massaging anyone this semester, so the only situation I could even fathom arising would be that I might trip and accidentally fall onto my own finger with my eye, and even if this DID take place, short fingernails aren't going to jack shit when my finger is nonetheless knuckle-deep in my eye.


7. I am already overwhelmed by the amount of info that we're going to be plowing through each week. Overwhelmed, as in my tummy hurts right now, here, today. Overwhelmed, as in I sat and listened to my instructor's lectures on-line today while working (for this first week's worth of material), and it took me about 3 hours to do so.


8. I couldn't remember the name of the part of the sternum that the clavicle attaches to.


9. I couldn't remember the name of the cavity on the scapula that the humerus sits in.


10. I *could*, however, remember that you should handle a man's erection professionally. But I somehow doubt they'll ask this on our state board exam.


11. I couldn't remember the name of the muscle that attaches near the mastoid process and on the clavicle & sternum. Despite the fact that it has derivations of the words 'mastoid' and 'sternum' in its name.


12. I had too much coffee to drink this morning, which is mostly unrelated but nonetheless evident.


13. Scrub Nazi has toned down his moustache a bit, but now it just looks like a stiff white version of an old man's pocket-comb.

Seriously: prepare yourself for a whole shitload of freakout on this blog in the next few months. May the freakouts at least be interestingly written.

When All Else Fails, Blow

And so it goes that, after having lucked out for four semesters, I find myself having to take a Saturday class next semester.

Oh, no. Not just *any* Saturday class.

Clinic Saturday class.

Which means four hours of massaging in the squeaky hours of the summer morn.

Every Saturday.

For fifteen weeks.

Talk about suckfest.

Especially since I already know of two Saturdays where I can't be there.

Which means trying to figure out a day to make up the time.

Which means pudding-wrestling "The Transition Over to New Semesters" into something resembling submission.

Which probably means some major buttering up of Scrub-Nazi (and his giant moustache).

Which means my Saturday mornings from 9 to 1 signed over to the dark-gods of the Underworld.

Which means a summer semester (of presumably glorious weather) where I have to be stuck inside for four hours in the morning.

Which means I'd seriously consider blowing someone if they'd just offer weeknight clinic hours.

But whom to blow?

Whom to blow?

*Sigh*

Shipwrecks, Baby Asses, and Bubbles

So I was a bit distraught last week.

For those of you not keeping up, I'm nearing the end of my fourth semester with two more to go. (Technically I'm gonna try to stretch it out over three semesters since either which way, I'm gonna have to wait until June 2008 to take my state boards, but that didn't help much with alleviating last week's distraughtfulness.) And last Wednesday, I made the mistake of talking to some friends from one of my classes who were both super-pissed from trying to make sure their schedules would allow them to graduate at the end of next semester.

And fuck be to fucking fuck if they didn't both scare the shit outta me by pointing out that I supposedly have 30 clinic hours to make up and that I need to get my clinic rotation done BEFORE I can take the state board reviews (the latter of which I still need to find out about).

Now, you must understand before I go any further that lately, trying to register for classes without them getting cancelled, and trying to find out EVERY SPECIFIC THING we need to graduate, have both been about as successful as, say, putting to use all those hours you spent at the public-pool training to do the back-stroke in an attempt to escape the vortex of the sinking Titanic. Basically, we've all just sorta been shitting and pissing and crying to ourselves while trying to keep our heads above water until the inevitable happens anyways. It's called "The Transition Over to New Semesters." But I won't even get into the madness of all that. All you need to know is: Titanic. Sinking. Backstroke. Drowning. Death.

So, needless to say, after finding out I had 30 extra clinic hours that I needed to complete and hadn't even aware of, it was of course the only thing I could think about all class--how was I gonna make up the fucking thirty motherf-ing hours that I needed to make up? I mean, that's almost a full goddamn work-week!

I was prepping to beg both Chiro-Man and the Scrub-Nazi to hook me up with some events that I could attend to makeup hours (chair massages, sporting events, etc.). In fact, I was feeling so desperate, I was actually contemplating a) offering a Scrub-Nazi a Giant-Moustache-Grooming Session in return for his help (he has a very large moustache) and b) offering pretty much ANYTHING to the Chiro-Man for his help (Who am I kidding? I'd offer him all that even if he DIDN'T help me out--*oh swoonliness*).

Suffice it to say, my usual zen self was freaking the hell out, mostly because up until that point, I'd been feeling as though I was the only post-shipwrecked person floating along on a nice chunk of ship-wood while everyone else was scrambling to find some debris to hang onto. *Backstroke, backstroke*

My significant other of course had to endure a lengthy, undoubtedly incoherent, phone call after class where I hysterically rattled off the eight-billion questions I now had and couldn't bear to wait until today to find out about (all of which he couldn't've answered even if he had just consumed the brains of my school's registrar--so that was kind of an exercise in futility).

But *finally breathing again* thanks be to jeebus, I got an email back from the registrar this weekend that smoothed all my bumpy pimplified acne-scarred worries out into the softiness of a baby's butt:

I am all good (for the moment at least), I'm on track the way I should be, and I've nothing major to worry about.

I'm almost afraid to say that out of fear that I might jinx myself.

So now I'm just holding my breath, hoping that, like a little tremulous and fragile spring bubble blown from a child's wand, perhaps if I don't move, it'll all just lie there perfectly without ever bursting.

*Backstroking, backstroking*

Apparently I am still in Scrub Nazi's good graces after all, despite having riled him up with my clothing-choices the other weekend; and apparently (based on yesterday's run-in) the man is flirty in the same way that five-year-olds are flirty.

Were he actually five years old, it would probably be a bit more endearing.

Seminar-ishities

1. Apparently when a gazelle is attacked by a predator, it immediately goes into this death-like trance-state. Oftentimes the predator will drag it away and hide it for food later, thinking it to be dead. Once it has left and a certain amount of time goes by, the gazelle awakens from the trance-state, and it awakens mid-run. So it'll be lying on its back, say, and its legs will start going as though it's still trying to escape. If it's lucky (and not horribly maimed), it can bust on out. Point being, apparently humans have a defense mechanism similar to that of gazelles. In states of high-trauma, we have coping mechanisms allowing us to get through relatively unscathed. Granted, we don't drop into a trance-like state in the face of hardship, but we do things like repress our emotions and those kinds of things. What happens, however, is that we lock that emotional-state into our body physically, just like the gazelle locks that emotional-state of running and escape into its body, and we can slip right back into that cut-off emotional state when we "awaken." So oftentimes, when you do deep-tissue work like myofascial release, you can trigger intense emotional reactions. For example, if a young boy is taught not to cry and learns to keep from doing so, he is essentially locking his diaphragm up so that there is no diaphragm-release in the instances in which, perhaps, he would feel the urge to cry. In such a case, when you work on a person's diaphragm, effectively loosening it up and making it relaxed again, all that locked-up emotional energy can be released as well (just like the gazelle returning to its awakened state), and the person may end up crying, just because that muscle is functional again and enabling them to do so. Cool, huh?


2. There is a myofascial technique on the gluts that requires you hold the person's two ass-cheeks together for them as you work out their gluteal muscles. This is necessary for no other reason than that if you DON'T do so, the person will almost certainly fart directly in your face.


3. I worked with a raw-food vegan for some of this weekend. So damn cool. The man had the most perfectly beautiful, lithe, and muscular body I've seen on a man. (He also had beautiful crows feet which radiated out from his eyes like joyful sunbeams.) When our instructor demonstrated on him for one series of techniques, he kept gushing about how perfect his musculature is (to the point that people were starting to grin because he sounded like he was about to hop up and straddle him and have his filthy filthy way with his perfect body). It truly was something to see. And it was lovely too because he explained that his little secret is that he doesn't drink really any water at all, he just eats ALL RAW and gets all his water that way. He's been a raw foodie for 5 years (vegan for 8), he runs 2-5 miles a day, and MAN does he know his shit, nutrition-wise. It was fascinating talking to him. It also warmed my cockles to see so many people interested in his raw-food veganism and actively seeking out more information about it instead of being nasty and cynical and argumentative. Made me realize how much respect I have for folks who can do the raw thing--it requires a beautiful level of commitment and self-discipline.


4. On Sunday, we were given 20-minutes each to take a break from the myofascial and to do just a general relaxation massage on our partner. I paired up with S___, the woman I worked with most of last seminar and whom I worked with a few times this seminar as well. I was very very pleased when she told me afterwards that my massage (which was a crummy little 20-minute one) was one of the best massages she's received in a really really long time, and that my pressure was perfect and that she was gonna have to steal some of my techniques. This was particularly flattering given that a) she's been a professional massage therapist for about four-years, so she knows her shit, and b) she's kind of critical and will immediately voice her displeasure with something that you're doing to her if it hurts or feels shitty (so I knew she wasn't just trying to be nice). When we left Sunday night, she wished me luck and told me "you're gonna make a wonderful massage therapist--seriously." *Blushing grin*


5. I think this seminar is the first time I've been referred to as "petite" (and multiple times, for that matter). (Though I suspect that most folks look "petite" when knuckle-deep in a heavy fella. But still.)


6. Things that got exposed this weekend at seminar: both ass-cheeks (individually and simultaneously), some of my pubes.


7. If you keep a body part in one position for a lengthy period of time without moving, the collagen in that area will start building itself to conform to that stationary state. This is why you are sometimes stiff when you wake up in the morning--the collagen has started to re-form and lock your body-parts into that position, so when you wake up, you are "holding" a position that needs to be unlocked again. Stretching does that. (For some reason, that tidbit of info makes me think of some Invasion-of-the-Body-Snatchers-esque horror flick. I just picture someone sleeping while the collagen starts growing fiercely inside of them like some snaky creepy creature, swallowing up all their insides.)


8. Apparently I still have the power to piss off Scrub-Nazi, despite the fact that we had become amicable by the end of Massage II. I ran into him Saturday while wearing a pair of blue-jeans with a large hole in the knee and my Rocky Horror Picture Show t-shirt (our seminars don't have any sort of dress-code). He said hello to me, looked me up and down (like in the good ol' days), and accompanied it all with a look that was like death warmed over. Or like I had smeared my nekkid body with feces and was just standing there, nibbling on my own nipples.


9. I just realized that I don't think I shit at all yesterday.

I am done done done with my classes classes classes for a week week week!

Woot woot fricking woot!

Man alive, is it a nice feeling.

Last night was my final final for the week, and after 3 hours of struggling my way through the snarls and brambles of both my written Massage II final (apparently an ice pack has only been made correctly if it's only 1/3 full of ice--1/8 a bag of ice or 1/2 of one would apparently be catastrophic and could potentially incapacitate your client!!! um yeah) and the practical part as well, I am happy to say that I came out of the other side in one piece.

While we were all cramming right before class and gorging ourselves on cookies that I'd baked the night before (baking=destresser), I had suggested going out for beers after class, and people just climbed on and humped the shit outta that idea (all but two people from our class actually came and jammed around the table and did rounds of shots together). So as soon as the practical exam was over, we were all eager to get the hell outta there and had a hard time controlling our fidgeting while our instructor ran off to calculate our final grades and our grades in the class.

Upon his return, he commenced with telling us each our grade. When he got to me, he gave me a bare-knuckled stare, and said, "You got a 95% in the class. You actually got a 94.6%, but I was generous and rounded it up." I wanted to be like, "Oh, no you di'n't!!!" and put my hand in his face and waggle my neck at him and his attitude, but I wasn't quite sure whether he was joking with me (since he's so goddamn serious all the time, and since I sometimes think he's a bit sweet on me--*batting eyelashes*--then again, I tend to make things up, so perhaps it's moreso just bemusement) or whether he had emphasized his "generosity" in an attempt to downplay the fact that I COMPLETELY KICKED HIS CLASS'S ASS, DESPITE HIM HAVING PIGEONHOLED ME AS A TOTAL SLACKER WEIRDO OF A STUDENT THE FIRST TIME HE MET ME.

So I looked at him and shouted, "Just get over the fact that you want a piece of this!" and wobbled my pelvis at him, smacked my ass, and quickly ran out of the room and off into the moist moist night and into a free round of shots and some beer and cigarettes with some damn fine people that I've grown to really like over the course of this semester.

I really wish I'd use this departing technique more frequently...

My New Theory

So I have a new theory. It came to me as I was driving home from Massage II class last night:

The way a person massages = their personality in the sack.

Hear me out. This is either gonna sound far-fetched or, conversely, like I'm over-stating the obvious. I haven't quite decided which is more likely at this point though. So bear with.

As it bothers me a bit that I've started kinda sexualizing a specific individual's touch in my Mass. II class this semester, I was giving it more thought on my way home last night.

We're told bluntly and honestly from the very beginning that it is not abnormal nor is it unusual for a client to be sexually attracted to a therapist or vice versa. (I try to find a bit of solace in this fact.) Touch is so majorly a part of intimacy and sex that it only makes sense that being massaged by someone while you're laid out nekkid on a table might mistakenly become sexually charged.

But why is it that only the touch of certain folks has that electrical jolt to it?

Not once, in all my previous massage experiences, have a felt a goddamn thing sexually when it comes to getting a massage.

Now this semester, totally different story.

Why why why?

Herein lies my theory.

Perhaps the reason certain folks' touch becomes sexualized to us in the context of massage while others' do not is not because of any complicated sexual awakening of feelings towards them (which wouldn't make that much sense seeing as, in most cases, you know not a thing about the person, other than what they look like--and that fact doesn't necessarily match up with the charge you may feel) but because we perceive and link the way they move, the way they touch, their rhythms, etc., to the way they would be in the sack.

Oversimplified? Maybe. Far-fetched? Perhaps.

But it kinda makes sense as well. If touch and sex are so interwoven in so many ways, then why would we NOT (consciously or subconsciously) make this connection between how a person touches in massage and how they'd touch in the sack?

Case in point: my massage instructor from last semester. The man lays into you immediately and (almost unbearably) forcefully without any build-up. He is a Russian fellow, and he massages with all the brute force you'd expect from a burly Russian man. But there doesn't seem to be that much gentleness or careful consideration for the body as some people have. I'm sure it's there, but it's there in a not-so-obvious way. When he massages, it moreso feels like he's barging in on your body than working up to the force with which he is handling you.

I felt not the slightly twinge of eroticization (is that a word?) when I got massaged by him.

This semester: a completely different story:

_____'s hands are all, like, gentle sweet talk and sidelong glances with the occasional winked innuendo tossed in your muscle's direction, and then suddenly it's WAPPAMMMM and that muscle's pinned down and writhing, squirming gleefully underneath his hands, completely at his will, putting up an energetic, feisty, but only half-hearted fight to come out on top despite the fact that you know it's TOTALLY enjoying it and a minute or two from now will be more than happy to chill out, lay back, and let him do whatever he damn well pleases to it, and It. Will. Love. Every. Fricking. Minute. Of. It.

Yes.

And apparently I'm all about that.

Granted, a lot of your massage technique has to do with what you've learned and being able to do what you've learned accurately. But the other half of the massage is more artwork--each person is completely different. No two touches are the same. And you work your magic in such a way that your body sings it out. Your massage has its own personality, and that's something that you won't be able to change much about. And, just like with sex, not only the client but you as a massage therapist may find yourself excited and spent once it's all over with (my experience with Big Blond Stoner Boy being a perfect example).

I think about some of the other folks in the class too, and it gets me thinking about the general trend of touch in there: the guys are almost always more forceful and assertive (though some of them rather clumsily so) while the majority of women in there err on the side of being too gentle and not aggressive enough. Also intriguing, no? I'd suspect that almost every one of the way-too-light massage therapists in there probably are the more subservient types in the sack--they like (or dislike, but still choose) to just lie back and let the other person be in charge. They're not assertive, and they don't demand to be pleased the way they deserve to be.

Then you've got me--I am bossy and forceful when it comes to massaging. At first I erred on the part of being too gentle in class, but lately, I've been feeling like I'm growing into my massage finally, now that I know that, even if I put all my force into it, chances are I'm not gonna hurt someone. I feel like I'm coming into my own, finding my technique, and I'm really starting to enjoy myself now. I've been told I have very strong hands on several occasions, and I chalk that up to a compliment, seeing as way too many women that have massaged me have featherweight touches. I'm very much assertive nowadays, and I like to feel like I'm in charge. I like and want your muscles to melt underneath my touch. Even when I don't know *what* the hell I'm doing sometimes, I do it self-assuredly in the hope that it'll at least convince the person I'm massaging that I know what's going on. (Not to mention that I like to find tender spots and make people scream as I work the shit out of them until they're singing in joyous ecstasy--a bit of the S&Mer in me, perhaps.)

And yeah, you can make the leap here, and (unless someone would like to argue, or unless someone would like to find out for themselves and *then* argue) it'd be a fairly accurate one.

Perhaps this connection is so obvious that it doesn't require me even remarking upon it. Perhaps it only just makes sense. And perhaps it's not so much the connection between massage and sex as it is massage and personality (which is then reflected in how a person is in the sack). But whatever which way, it's totally fascinating to me.

And needless to say, I am the BEST MASSAGE YOU'LL EVER HAVE.

I'm starting to think there's something wrong with me and I have some weird subconscious teacher-student sexual fantasy lurking somewhere in the deep recesses of my skull, 'cause now I'm finding myself occasionally jonesing for a quick jump in the lap of yet ANOTHER instructor (or sometimes just to pet his head like a little puppy). Not *all* the time. But every once in a while. AND I HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO CLUE WHY.

First it was The Bane of My Existence, and now this. What in god's name is the matter with me?

The weird thing is I've never *ever* been one of those folks who gets fiendish crushes on their teachers--not in high school, not in college, not in grad school.

Perhaps I've just acquired a taste for the sexy bite of brilliantly intelligent, strong men? (I suppose this wouldn't be that much of a newly-acquired taste though, since those're the kinds of folks I've *always* been attracted to.)

Perhaps I'm weirdly attracted to the brisk, anal-retentive, cut and dry, authoritative nature of folks because it leaves me intrigued about the soft spots that must be lying somewhere underneath it all, especially when they occasionally give a brief glimpse of these soft spots through little glitches of insecurities and/or weaknesses? Perhaps this is attractive to me because I do the same kind of things, so I'd like to think that there is, in fact, a good and beautiful person underneath it all?

Perhaps I am attracted to them because they offer up a hard-headed challenge to me and there's something extremely erotic in the idea of making someone who appears so strong and powerful bow down submissively before me?

Either that or I'm suddenly just becoming masochistically attracted to people whose personalities run completely counter to my own and who I'm torn between hating and wanting to lick.

I'm starting to think the latter may be true. Which is bizarre and disturbing but actually explains a whole helluva lot.

My ex-Marine massage instructor this semester makes PowerPoint presentations that feature really generic animated clip-art but which he treats with utmost seriousness, and occasionally when they come on the screen, I catch his eyes flitting about the room, seeking out some sign of approval or appreciation.

This makes me wanna sit him down on my lap and gently pet his hair and tell him he's pretty.

Basking in the Glow

So who should walk in to teach my Massage II class last night but the Scrubs-Nazi who gives me the evil eye whenever we cross paths and obviously and deliberately looks me up and down to try to find some inappropriate clothing that he can yell at me about. Fuck.

Perhaps I've not mentioned him before, but during the middle of last semester, while I was rushing around between work and class to both get my uniform on and also eat something and then clock in, the aforementioned Scrubs-Nazi followed me *all* the way down the hallway to very rudely inquire about the absence of my scrubs top (as it was not yet on my body). I very icily told him that it was not yet *on* my body because some of us were rushing around to get to school from work and have to *change* once we get here. He mumbled and grumped something under his breath and stomped off. Ever after that, whenever we would cross paths, he would go out of his way to make it clear that he was inspecting me for failure to abide by the dress code. So I of course took *extra* long to get dressed before class and made sure to switch back into a civilian top before leaving JUST TO PISS HIM OFF.

Yeah.

And so now he's teaching my Massage II class.

I about shit a brick.

When he walked in, I immediately took out my nosering because I figured I sure as shit was doomed if he saw that. I then whispered to my friend T____, That's the scrubs-nazi guy who yelled at me that one week! And she just looked at me with a "you're so doomed" look and laughed.

This wouldn't be quite so major a problem if it didn't mean that I am now gonna end up working my ass off double-time just to prove to this guy that I am *not* in fact the slacker chick he had pegged me for based on my appearance. Gah!

A little bit of info about the Scrubs-Nazi, so you understand my pain: he is an ex-Marine. He worked in a factory-atmosphere for about 31 years before making the (inexplicable) switch over to massage therapy. He served in Vietnam. And he does power-point presentations for each class.

Double yeah.

He also has the most monotone speaking voice I've heard in a while, and having to sit through four hours of class with him after having sat through a previous two-hour class and also 8 and 1/2 hours of work IS GOING TO MAKE MY SKIN TURN INSIDE OUT AND CATCH FIRE.

Erf erf erf, I said to myself the first two hours of class. This guy is going to be the death of me.

And then we went into practical and I got to play patient. We spent the evening working on client-requested massage (i.e. I had to fill out fake-paperwork about the fact that I have carpal tunnel problems and a perpetually stiff neck from computer-usage at work) and our partner spent 1/2 an hour devoting their time to working on these areas.

As he wandered around the room offering tips and suggestions, he stopped at my table and my partner T___ asked him what kind of massage could be used for carpal tunnel.

Color me impressed when he showed my partner how to pinpoint the area of the wrist/hand to work on by wandering up and down my forearm, stimulating my tendons so that my fingers kept compulsively twitching and flexing until he hit the problem areas where the tendon was no longer stimulating the reflexive twitch of my fingers--that, he said, is the area where I'm having problems. How many times have I been to the doctors about this and how many times have they shown me this so that I might be able to more successfully combat my sore tight wrists daily? You guessed it--not a once.

Then he asked about my other problem areas, and I told him about my neck. He started to very gently massage and then was like, "Wow--your one neck muscle is strung as tight as a guitar string." He then showed T___ how to numb the nerve and in turn relax the muscle by applying pressure to the motor point in the back of my neck. It was the most bizarre thing I've experience, body-wise, because as he pressed against this muscle, it actually began to jump and kick. He looked at me and said, Do you feel that? And I sure as shit did. It was my muscle spasming and it felt like I had a little Rosemary's baby gestating in my neck that was getting surly and kicking in utero. It literally jumped and kicked several times before he managed to numb it and then it felt like sweet sweet glorious goodness. He smiled at me and that was that.

Despite my initial reservations, he had won me over with his (dare I say it) professionalism and his tender and gentle touch. I guess judging a book by the cover works both ways.

So all in all, it was a good (albeit long) day. My two-hour massage clinic is *not* in fact the one where we work on friends and family (yes, I know you all are disappointed now--but that's NEXT semester apparently). Instead we will be spending an hour each Wednesday getting massaged and an hour giving a massage--no tests, no lecture, just massaging so that we familiarize ourselves with it more. And my roly-poly Russian instructor teaches that, so I am happy.

This also means I'll be receiving about 2 hours-worth of massage every Wednesday night, and ain't nothing bad about that--woot woot.

Tired and worn out, but my neck feeling like butter, I left school at 10:00pm to trek home. As I crawled into my car and switched into my crocs, who should walk by but my ABC Anatomy Instructor (henceforth to be referred to as The Bane of My Existence)... Had I taken just a few moments longer to pack up and clock out, I would've gotten to chat with him on the way to my car, but what can you do? Instead I turned on my headlights and let him bask in the glow as I sighed to myself, my stupid chest all 14-years old and giggly.

Things

1. I *think* I got chastised by some anal retentive blow-hard yesterday for wearing a "civilian" top before class. Apparently, if you're under 40, you couldn't *possibly* be coming to class directly from work! And apparently I'm going to have to start changing into my scrubs in my car... because "I'm too sexy for my shirt... too sexy for my shirt... so sexy it hu-urts."

2. God bless my roly-poly Russian massage instructor yet again because he let us go sit outside on the picnic tables in the glorious sun for an hour and a half while he lectured about the physiological effects of massage. It is much too much fun listening to people try to decipher his thick Russian accent:
"So the second step in heat elimination is "reparations?" (*All the civil rights leaders say "heeeeeey"!*)
"No! Is evaporation!"
I stared intently at his cute little corn teeth for an hour and a half, as I'd never noticed them before. They are very cute and corn-like. Tee hee.

3. Apparently they filter the tension-building instrumental score to Nightmare on Elm Street into the massage room in the guise of "relaxation music"--I swear to you, the whole time I was massaging, I was nervously half-expecting Freddy Kreuger or Chucky to suddenly come lurching out from beneath a massage table, wielding a very large knife. Between *that* relaxation loop and the one that consists mainly of trickling, pee-inducing water, it is amazing to me that anyone is EVER able to reach a state of relaxation there.