Today I went to my favorite hole in the wall massage joint and settled in for a serious rub down. As I’ve documented before, one of my favorite hobbies is paying a stranger to touch me. (Good touch, not bad touch)
Despite the painful pleasure of deep-tissue-near-evisceration, my mind refuses to settle. It skims my memory minefields like a vulture looking for meat. Laid out on the table like a *beautiful* beached whale, I remembered my ex-gym continuing to bill my debit card after I filed cancellation forms. Then I thought about Sunday’s heartwarming display of same-sex couples marrying at City Hall.
My mind drifted back to the gym.
Bastards charged me two payments of $63.
Contracts. Same-sex marriage! I was happy again. But contracts stuck with me.
Too many contracts
We’re always being told the path to happiness is through simplicity. Right? My massage is a simple and therapeutic pleasure. Ouch!
Paperwork is the worst.
Keep total number of contracts to a manageable few: marriage, mortgage…maybe with an actual contractor (if you’re getting work done).
What was ‘Contract with America’? Oh, that weird Republican thing from the 1990′s.
What contracts will I have to sign in the future? Hopefully no unsavory pyramid schemes.
Remember the time I almost joined a yoga cult? A chubby man in a white karate outfit put me through a series of balance exercises in a small room. Then he had me lay on a floor mat, where he proceeded to massage my organs. Once he was done feeling up my liver, he meditated over my body, quietly, for a really long time. Then he asked me for $700…
My hour is up. Relaxation eludes me again!