|From a mural in West Hollywood|
But, what if the date you have is a date with yourself and you still come home with a headache? That can't be good.
It started out with a massage. I booked it at a massage salon in a strip mall, one I had been to before, and $39.00 for a full hour is not a bad price. Now, this wasn't a spa, but it had done the trick before. I had requested a combo of Swedish and some deep tissue work, due to the painting and stress I had been under. The masseuse had barely touched me when she noticed how tight I was and offered a full deep tissue, really deep, for only $10.00 more. I agreed. She climbed up on the table, and began using her heels to dig into my back. She walked up and down my back digging into spots near my spine, and shoulders, all the while commenting how strong and tight I was. (I know, this is beginning to sound like a bad porn novel.) After a while, she switched from her heels to her knees and eventually to her elbows. She eventually finished with a light Swedish and the hour was up. While on one hand, I did feel some relief from the tension I'd been carrying, I knew I wasn't completely relaxed.
|From a mural in West Hollywood|
The food arrived, and I ate and wrote, glancing around me at the patrons nearby. A couple to my right, I think he was gay, and she his best girlfriend; two women on my left, one with an accent and the other was speaking too softly to hear. A trio was eating at the table in front of me, two young men, very gay, and a woman- all eating salads. As I was writing, something was gnawing at me, and I couldn't discern what. A pent up emotion, but what? Frustration over a toilet I was having difficulty repairing at home, general malaise at the encroaching holiday, or a surprise shock from an unexpected email, stirring up old wounds and bittersweet memories? A bit of all three, perhaps, with the latter being the heavyweight.
Back to my me-date, I finished eating, (the food is always good at Veggie Grill) and was feeling a bit guilty taking up space at a table while not eating. Now, the place was not hurting for tables, there was no line out the door. But, the headache was building and I thought some exercise might do me some good. And I must admit, the call to fix the toilet was deafening, as was the sister call to finish touching up the recent paint jobs. So, I left to continue my me-date, resisting the urge to rush home and keep working.
|Trilingual signs in West Hollywood|
I wandered around Santa Monica Blvd for a while. Feeling no particular pull, except for coffee, I headed to the one and only Starbucks I knew of in WeHo. I got my order and walked back to my car and drove home, running errands on the way. All in all it was an okay me-date. I mean, I'd still do it again, but I think I'd pay better attention to my moods. Though, I think getting out did me some good, if only for the benefits of walking, of seeing something other than my house and neighborhood, of breathing fresher air outside, of breaking my routine.
While getting out of the house was, and is, a good thing, it doesn't necessarily take my mind off all the things I need to do either for my job, my house, my kids, or myself. It does serve as a temporary reprieve from the boredom of coming home and constantly working, or surfing the internet. All work and no play makes Jeff a dull, gay old man.
And who knows? I might meet a handsome, hunky barista who knows exactly how hot to make my latte.