This is your brain. This is your brain on a massage.

I used to be awesome at doing nothing.

Before I got married and had kids, I would devote at least one weekend day to totally vegging out.

Sweats, the couch, and an MTV Real World marathon.

I miss those days.

I don’t recall having trouble relaxing because I couldn’t turn my mind off.

And now it seems with the addition of each child, the level of anxiety and the amount of crap I worry about has increased exponentially.

If I took a whole weekend day now to do nothing, to recover, I would feel a tremendous amount of guilt.

Even taking just an hour, I feel my brain starting…

You should be doing the laundry.

You should be cleaning the office.

You should be getting a head start on dinner.

You should not be immobile.

And I really noticed this on Tuesday.

When I got my free massage.

For an hour.

From one of my new favorite people.

The Awesome Massage Therapist (AMT).

I walked into her house.

She directed me to the basement.

It was neat.

And clean.

And warm.

And quiet.

Everything that my house is not.

We had some small talk, and then she gave me a couple minutes to strip down and get under the covers on the table.

“You can take everything off or leave your underwear on. Whatever you want. All your parts will be covered,” she said.

And I immediately went from eagerly anticipating to worrying.

Should I take my underwear off or leave them on?

What does everyone else do?

Will she think I’m lame if I leave my underpants on?

Shit…what underpants am I even wearing?

Jesus.

Shut the hell up and get on the fucking table.

So I got on the table.

I tried to remember why I was there.

I started to get excited.

But I was still having to exert energy to shut that stupid voice up in the back of my head.

You should be at the Y.

This is an hour of cardio you are missing.

You should have given this to your husband.

He really needs it more than you…

I told myself to shut up again and enjoy it.

Stay in the moment.

Stay in the moment.

AMT came into the room.

“Just get in your zone,” she said.

So I closed my eyes.

And started to relax.

Until I realized that I hadn’t shaved my legs.

Since October.

Shit.

I haven’t really thought about it at the Y because no one looks too closely.

And I’m not super hairy.

But AMT was going to be up close.

And touching me.

But she did tell me that she did yoga.

So I thought, well, if she does yoga, then she won’t mind a little body hair… I mean people who do yoga are all granola-y and in touch with their bodies, and down-to-earth and accepting.

Right?

Well, if not, she had made it through one leg, and she hadn’t thrown up on me…

To take my mind off the hair on my legs, I started obsessing about what the cellulite on my thighs looked like as she pressed her fingers into me.

Yeah.

This massage was really wiping all my stress away…

I told myself to shut the hell up for the 15th time, and I started to get back into my zone.

Then I really got into my zone.

And I was jolted out of it.

By the sound of…

…my own snoring.

Oh my God.

A nice big snort.

AMT must be watching the clock move in slow motion, waiting to be done rubbing my hairy, cellulite-y, ratty underpants wearing, snoring ass right about now…

I spent the rest of the time trying to stay awake, afraid I’d have another 6th grade Presidential Physical Fitness test episode.

I did have 2 more snoring attacks, but I’m pretty sure I made it through fart-free.

At least I hope I did.

And so that was my hour of “relaxation.”

My body felt great.

Now if I could only find someone who could massage my brain…

Until then, I guess I’ll have to stick with the wine. 

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