Good Lord, Don’t Show Me That

Every month, I get a massage. The wonderful masseuse I go to is extremely talented AND gives teachers a killer discount. Even if she charged full price, I’d go. It’s for my sanity and it’s a real fucking treat. It’s a win-win. 

Every month, because of said massage, I also get treated to a visual display that damn near gives me heart palpitations. 

I know I’m going to see it, so I don’t know why it’s always such a shock to my system. Just like damn clockwork, it happens every month. Still, it’s such a sight that no amount of preparation would suffice. 

I’m sure most of you are thinking that maybe my masseuse has a wall of mirrors in her room. So, when I’m hastily undressing, I get a real candid view of myself. Or, maybe, her ceiling is one big, fat mirror, so I have to stare at myself as my body spreads out and over the massage table. 

No. It’s much worse.

So.much.worse.

THERE IS A FULL-LENGTH MIRROR…

IN FRONT OF THE EFFING TOILET…

IN THE BATHROOM…

AT THE SALON. 

A.FULL-LENGTH.MIRROR.IN.FRONT.OF.THE.TOILET. 

In fact, the whole room is just one asshole mirror. 

WHO, IN GOD’S NAME, thought it would be a good idea to put a mirror in so people could view themselves on the toilet? 

I don’t care if you’re Twiggy or Daenerys-friggin’-Targaryen, no one wants to watch themselves disgrace a public toilet. 

NO ONE.

Not only do I not need to watch my toilet activities, I really don’t need to be reminded of exactly how fat I am. 

Before a massage, I should be readying my brain for zen thoughts, not being shocked clean off the toilet when I see how my gut, so elegantly, drapes itself over my lap and into the toilet bowl. 

If this wasn’t already bad enough, the toilet is way too close to the wall on one side. You have to practically become one with the wall just to sit on the throne of shame. It’s a real nightmare for germaphobes. And, for people who have asses that need to be given a wide berth.

So, why subject myself to this masochistic ritual every month? 

Well, quite simply, it’s because I have the bladder capacity of a thimble. Even if I really don’t need to go to the bathroom, my neurotic brain thinks I do and I spend the entire time trying not to have to use the restroom.

I know. It’s exhausting. 

So, as terrifying as the Funhouse of Horrors really is, using it is a necessity in order to fully enjoy my massage. 

These last few months, I’ve been trying to just not look.

If you’ve ever had to talk to someone with a boil smack dab in the middle of their forehead or a goiter growing out of their neck, you’ll know it’s impossible to not stare at the elephant in the room. 

It’s impossible not to look. 

Also, each month, I’m hoping I saw it wrong, and it won’t nearly be as bad. 

Nope. It’s that bad. 

I’ve even left a Yelp review for the salon*, but no one has taken the hint. 

 

So, I’m left with being reminded of how truly fat I am every month. 

Maybe the continued shock to my system is good for my heart? 
*My wonderful masseuse has no affiliation with the disgraceful mirror in this post.