Massage
Hmm, I wonder if I should tell this masseuse that I’m deathly allergic to lavender? Nah, I bet it’ll be alright.
I mean, he’s a professional, and I’m sure he knows best. If he wanted to learn if I had any allergies, he would've asked. Well, I guess he did ask and I said no. But, a professional would have understood I was just being polite, right?
He’s probably not using lavender anyway. It’s probably shea butter. Shea butter would make sense. Although, my back is starting to get hot and itchy. There might be lavender in the massage oil. Can I be sure of that, though? My wheezing suggests yes.
Maybe it’s just a different massage technique. Maybe he’s only using a little lavender to shock my system into relaxation. Who am I to jump in and tell this guy how to do his job? He’s been giving massages for years. Meanwhile, I’ve only spent the last few minutes receiving my excruciating massage.
Sometimes I wish I weren’t so Midwestern. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? I could speak up about my lavender allergy and he might take me to the ER before I die? Oh, but that would probably put him out. He must have other massage appointments later. I don’t want him to lose any future business. And, he might feel guilty about using lavender in the first place. That settles it; I won’t say anything.
…
I should say something. I think my motor functions are shutting down.
How do I approach it? Maybe something like, “Hey, funny story. Remember when you asked if I had allergies and I said no? Well, I just automatically say no when I think that’s what people want to hear.” Nah, that sounds too pushy.
Maybe I could ask for a break, and I could quietly sneak out and drive myself to the hospital. That is, if I can keep my eyes from swelling shut. Would my masseuse be offended if I snuck out halfway through a massage? Probably. I’d better not risk it.
I have an idea. Maybe I can text Colleen, and she could call the spa and tell them that I’m allergic to lavender. Then someone at the desk would come back and tell the masseuse. I wonder if all that could happen in the next minute or so. Because, I’m feeling a little woozy. No wait, now I remember seeing a “no cellphones” sign in the lobby. I’d better not text.
You know what? Let’s just ride it out and see where this goes.
…
Hey, what’s that tunnel of light up ahead? Hi, Grandpa Ross. Long time no see.
A Bad Peach
I ate a peach yesterday that I think might have gone bad. How can you tell when a peach has gone bad? Can I just describe to you what happened?
Okay, first off, the peach looked fine. It was about shoulder height and white, with brown spots. It had a nice, fine layer of peach fuzz. Except near the back, where it had a long tail. And, I guess it had some extra hair running down the crest of its neck as well. But, everywhere else—the haunches, the muzzle—had standard-looking peach fuzz. And, it wasn’t bruised, beyond one spot behind the ribs.
The problem started when I took my first bite. Don’t get me wrong, it was juicy and delicious. But, as soon as I bit into it, it reared up on its hind legs and tried to run away. I had to grab the peach by its peach reins and hold on for dear life. The damn thing tried to kick me, if you can imagine. A peach trying to bite and kick someone?
I finally got a hold of it, and I ate the whole thing. All the way down to the pit/saddle. I mean whatever it takes to get your five daily servings, right? But, my stomach is super upset today. I feel terrible.
I was wondering, do you guys think I could be allergic to peaches? God, I hope not.