The Masseuse’s Torture Chamber

sinus massageI don’t get massages often. I have trouble justifying paying an exorbitant amount of money for what sometimes turns out to be nothing more than a glorified back rub. But after walking 71 miles during my week in London and hauling countless boxes during my move last weekend, I decided to treat my sore muscles to a little TLC.

When I checked in at the massage parlor after work yesterday, my masseuse asked me what type of aroma therapy I wanted: lavender, eucalyptus or rosemary. I’m pretty sure I said, “Eucalyptus, please,” but she must have heard “Poop-alyptus, please,” because about five minutes into the massage, the cleansing scent of Eucalyptus was overtaken by something foul and sinister.

Fortunately, I was face down on the massage table, so I was able to pretend I didn’t smell anything unpleasant. Meanwhile, Denise (as we’ll call her) continued to gently press her fingers into my back. Emphasis on gently. Remember that glorified back rub we talked about earlier? Yeah. Denise must have missed the memo that I paid for a deep tissue massage.

I’m pretty sure Denise was new to this whole massage therapy thing, not only because of her light touch, but also because only a newbie at a job where you’re in a confined space with your client would choose to eat a bean burrito for lunch and then expel large quantities of noxious fumes into said confined space, completely fouling the entire aroma therapy portion of massage therapy.

I was relieved when Denise moved on to my feet, because then at least her burrito bombs exploded a few feet further away from my face. But then she started tickling me. I started laughing out loud, not only because I was ticklish, but because the entire situation was so uncomfortable! After a while, the dust mites in the headrest triggered my allergies, completely clogging my sinuses, which was unfortunate for purposes of oxygenation but rather fortuitous as it related to the Poop-alyptus aroma in the room.

Never before have I so badly wanted my hour of massage therapy to be over so quickly. Common courtesy required that I stay and allow Denise to do her job but, rather than paying for an hour of relaxing muscle therapy, I found that I paid for an hour in the Masseuse’s torture chamber where I was stripped down, felt up, poked, prodded, tickled and finally, gassed.

Authentically Aurora

Why I Write

Some readers of my blog might think that I amLittle Girl Lipstick





It’s true that I have described myself as “an intelligent… talented… successful young woman” who is “ridiculously attractive” and “a speed dating rock star”.

It’s also true that most of my posts involve some sort of explanation about why one guy or another isn’t a good fit for me. Some are socially awkward. Others have poor grammar. Still others hide the fact that they have children. No biggie.

I can understand why some folks might get the impression that I have a victim mentality and that I either believe I have already attained perfection or that I am completely absorbed with my own brokenness. I readily admit that I have walls up and have become cynical about love. But I also openly acknowledge that I am in a season of refinement, and I wholeheartedly believe that God is in the process of taking away my heart of stone and giving me a tender, responsive heart of flesh.

Dear DiaryI don’t write because I think that the world revolves around me or that everyone else should be enamored with the daily dramas of my life. In fact, I barely have any followers – less than 50 – and most of them don’t even know my real identity.

I write because it’s therapeutic. I write because it helps my mind process events and observations. And I write publicly, even if no one is reading, because it keeps my journal entries from veering into the realm of the depressed and the truly “woe is me.”

Writing publicly forces me to change my mindset to see the humor in life situations and to try to learn from the experiences God allows to come into my life. And if someone gets a laugh out of my adventures in the process, all the better.

Authentically Aurora