At Least They're Committed

Me and the boys plus DS’s girlfriend Jess at the dinner table tonight and DS asks me how my day was and I say it was pretty good and that I got a facial and DS and EBD snort and laugh and I’m not sure what tiny naive part of me thought that they wouldn’t.

“Yeah,” says Edison’s Black Dahlia. “When she got home, Dad’s like, ‘How was your facial?’ and she’s like, ‘It felt good,’ and I’m like . . . (makes wide-eyed, disgusted, head-shaking gesture) eeuuswououooghck!”

And we laughed.

Sexual references aside, it took some determination on my part to go into the salon for a facial. I don’t like to be touched, for reals, unless it’s for romantic reasons and I’m no longer even sure of that because I can’t remember.

Where was I. Oh, yes. Nice salon, nice gal giving the facial — anti-aging this go round, pore minimizing next time — and I thought it was cool and all official spa-like that I had to get undressed and wear the white, cotton towel/gown and I was relieved that it fit on the smallest snaps despite barely starting to lose this excess 10 pounds.

Still, when she put the eucalyptus all over my arms and hands and massaged them and my upper chest, I did have to silently talk myself through it and remind myself it was relaxing and it did feel good and I’d best get used to it because I’ve been neglecting me for much too long. And that’s not going to happen anymore.

Thursday, new hair style. Friday, play day. It’s my turn.