Take A Spa Day*


Excuse me what?

Take a what?

Oh man.

Do I have to?

It was suggested to me that I actually take the day off today.

Not from doing the deal, that’s not an option, did that, met my person, carried the message, not the mess, a little later on today, got my get right with God, but yeah, it was suggested, that I take the day off.

I was relaying how I felt guilty about going on a date this evening.

A sexy as fuck date.

A date that pulled up in a 1972 Mach 1 grass-green Mustang.

A date over an amazing meal at Range—now one of my favorite restaurants, I will be going back (grilled Bay shrimp over marinated cabbage with pickled peppers for an appetizer and coffee rubbed pork shoulder over hominy with braised collard greens for my entrée—the pork fell apart with the softest pressure from the fork and I made my very happy, happy face).

There was even some kissing on said date.

I am home a little earlier than anticipated, but I was grateful to be going out for an evening on the town and completely understood my dates needing to get home at a decent hour since he’ll be up and out the door of his house at 7a.m.

Me?

Not so much.

Although I will get up and do my thing here at the house.

I have two ladies back-to-back coming over.

Meal prep to do for the week.

And.

Yes.

Finally.

Writing my Human Development paper.

Which really won’t take as much time as my anxiety would like to think it would.

I just don’t want to do it because I don’t like the class and it seems like superfluous grunt work, but I figure that there will be this kind of work once in a while.

Granted.

I was hoping that it would not so remind me of undergraduate work I have already done, but be that as it may, it’s a necessary evil.

One that I was admonished to set aside and to let myself enjoy a day off.

A day of rest.

A spa day, if you will.

So.

I did what ladies do.

I did lunch.

I went shopping.

I got my nails did.

And my eyebrows waxed.

I got suckered into buying the most expensive pair of jeans I have ever bought.

$180.

Eek a fucking mouse.

That’s basically my clothing allowance for the month.

I had already dropped fifty bucks for a pretty new sweater and wasn’t even in the next store looking for jeans, but as I pulled out a few tops to try on I saw some jeans and thought, yeah, I could use a new pair, these are cute.

And they were.

But.

They didn’t fit and I wasn’t about to hop out and grab another pair.

I wasn’t thinking that the freaking sales girl, doing her job and doing a damn fine one, would come back with another pair of jeans, slightly different cut, and say, here, try these on, I think they’ll fit.

Oh fuck me.

Man.

They fit like a glove.

Like blue jean sateen skin.

Like I felt like Blue Jean from the David Bowie song.

Like I have to have these pants.

I looked at the price tag and winced.

I looked at my ass and said, I can’t leave without these pants.

So.

I have a pair of jeans that I will now never.

NEVER.

Wear on my bicycle.

That are actually recommended to be dry-cleaned.

Who dry-cleans jeans?

Me I guess.

I just took them off before sitting down to write my blog and hung them on a hanger; I will be taking care of these pants.

And.

I am proud to say.

I did take care of myself.

I did go to the nail salon and do the digits and get the waxing and I let myself take a really long, hot, luxurious shower when I got home, deep conditioned that hair.

If I’m going on a date, I don’t care if my hair is up, which is how I did it for this evening’s date, I want my hair to be soft to the touch.

I want my date to want to plunge his hands into it.

Mission accomplished.

Not that my date did do such a thing, but I felt pretty sexy.

In my $180 pair of jeans and my black Helmut Lang sweater.

Which if I had bought it off the rack would have been more than the jeans, but I found it at a re-sale shop and got the steal of the century for $50.

I will also admit I was feeling anxiety about the date.

Not so much about my date.

He’s a dreamboat.

But.

About myself.

I was having a bout of “not enough.”

I don’t have the right look.

The right clothes.

The right shoes.

I am not enough.

I do not like being in that head space and it’s about fear and it’s silly and my date thinks I’m sexy.

So why the worry?

Anything to sabotage me being in the present and having a nice time.

“Go have fun!” She said to me as we sat at the back table at Tart to Tart, in the little nook where we like to sit and read.

“I totally concur with Honey, take a spa day!”

All right.

When I get the suggestion from not one, but two of my people, and really, should I consult the third, she would have said the same thing, and I have to take the suggestion.

I would rather take the suggestion than face up to the ramifications of not.

My own ideas suck.

Always have.

Always will.

The God idea; however, does not.

When people I love, respect, admire, and want what they have, give me suggestions; it is very much like listening to the God of my understanding.

A far more compassionate, loving, and gentle God than the one I came to know previous to this incarnation.

I am lucky.

I have had a spiritual awakening.

And when I sit back and acknowledge that.

When I look at my life.

The badass date I just went on.

Being in graduate school.

$180 jeans.

Please.

Who am I trying to kid?

My life rocks.

I’m a fucking rock star.

I really am.

Granted I could use some more humility.

But then I wasn’t claiming to be perfect.

Just sexy as fuck.

I mean.

Have you seen my new pants?

*This blog was written last night; however, my internet was down.  There will be another blog post this evening.  Happy Sunday!

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