Live by the Groupon, Die by the Groupon

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I am a meticulous planner. My husband is very spontaneous—to the point where, I swear this happened, he once dove out of a moving car and ran through traffic to get to a pierogie stand down the street. He didn’t even tell anyone what he was doing. He just screamed to stop the car and my friends and I watched his behind disappear in between two Ford Explorers stopped at a light.

      I, on the other hand, make lists to check my lists. It’s my absolute favorite thing to do and I do it compulsively. The bottom of my purse is cushioned with a confetti pile of post-its, all bonded together into one colorful lump by sticks of trident that have weaseled their way out of their wrappers. Usually, one lone unwrapped tampon is stuck to the outside.I never know how it gets like that

     When I was little I used to sit on the playground with my notebook and make lists for everything I knew how to do. Like "How to make tea.”

1.       Put water in cup

2.       Put cup in microwave

3.       Put tea bag in cup

4.        Wait a little

5.       Add milk and sugar and stir

6.       Enjoy your tea!

     I had a notebook full of how to make kites, how to brush your teeth, what you should bring to grandma’s house. I also had no friends.

Seriously.

     How to make friends was not in my repertoire. Which is a shame because I’m sure that they would love my mad tea and kite making skills.

     As an adult, I’m more neurotic and much less cute. When I have a doctor’s appointment, like I did the other day the planning begins a long time before the actual event. It goes on a calendar, in my ipod, and then onto various notes. But most importantly—I need directions there and back.

      I am such a terrible driver it’s not even funny. I once took off my bumper because I drove over the meridian dividing the middle of the road—orange cones and all. I pulled into a gas station just in time to turn around and see an 18-wheeler turn my bumper into  a paperclip. I can’t see for squat at night, so I’m forced to plan all of my excursions while the sun is up like an anal reverse vampire.

      When I have to go somewhere unfamiliar, I completely panic. What if there’s a weird curvy road that looks like it's going one way but it’s actually going another? What if I have to parallel park? What if I have to get on the turnpike and merge into traffic?

     Thankfully, I had been to the doctor’s office several times before so I knew exactly when to leave work and exactly when I would get there. I arrived fifteen minutes early and went inside.

     The nurse couldn’t find my name on the list. Then she said words I dread to hear.

         “Oh! You’re appointment isn’t here. It’s at the hospital.”

       “Well, I guess I’ll reschedule then.”

      “No, you can make it—it’s only fifteen minutes. I’ll call them and tell them you’ll be late.”

         I’ll make a long story short—I went to four different buildings, running with the cheetah-like speed of a woman who considers shopping exercise and kettle corn health food--and finally ended up arriving two minutes late. I’ve never been late to an appointment in my life probably. When I was born, I popped out with a stopwatch and track shorts and yelled, "Yes! It's a record!!" 

        I just felt like something bad was going to happen.

        What happened was that they gave my appointment away and I proceeded to sit there for the next forty five minutes, checking my phone compulsively and glaring at the front desk over a 2008 People magazine that looked like it had been manhandled by a sticky pervert who loves Kate Winslet.

        I was extra upset because that morning I purchased a Groupon deal that was only good for that day—for a massage. I don’t know if you use Groupon, but it’s so wonderful. I mean you can get discounts on almost anything—food, facials, gym memberships. Too much even. The day that I buy a groupon for a spider vein treatment would be a sad day. Someday they’ll probably have groupons for prostitutes and colonoscopies. And I will happily get that half price probing.

        There was no way that I would get from my doctor’s appointment to my massage without being late. By the time I got outside it was full on rush hour traffic. My GPS kept yelling at me to “turn left sharply” and for the life of  my I couldn’t figure out when she learned adverbs. I called the massage place to apologize profusely.

        I was nearly twenty minutes late, stressed out and ready to relax when I realized that I was wearing some seriously ugly underwear. Like, lunar moth eaten underwear too crappy for homeless grandmothers to wear. It’s the middle of winter too, so I hadn’t shaved my legs…since…like, summer.

       How could I not have thought of these things before? They completely escaped the list. I approached the girl at the desk with a smile. She would understand. It was a rough day—I had to park in a parking garage and parallel park all in one day. Who am I, James Bond?

                “I’m so sorry I’m late!” I said.

               “It’s okay! Your massage therapist, Mark is getting the room ready.”

                Come again? ....Mark?

        It’s not just because I’m married now that being lubed up by a strange man strikes me as beyond creepy. Before I even had a boyfriend I was pretty opposed to that. Most of the time.  I mean, what kind of guy gets a massage therapy degree?

        I kept him waiting so I didn’t want to say, “Oh can I return him and get one with a vagina, please?” Live by the Groupon, die by the Groupon I guess. He led me up a few flights of stairs to a room that was warm and with dull lighting. Some sort of Enya remixed with whales cd w as playing.

        “Okay, are there any places that I should be aware of that you need touched?”

        …None of them. If you could just rub like, my pinky I’ll be good and on my way, thanks.

         “Umm, my neck and shoulders. In fact, just my neck. You don’t really need to go below the neck.”

        “Okay, well get undressed and lay face down.”

       After he left, I did as he told me to and left on my underwear. I also tucked my boobs under me in a process that could not be called anything but meticulous. Those suckers were not moving.

      Then I kept my eyes wrenched shut for the next hour and prayed for it to end. One of my oldest friends told me after she heard this, “Hmm. Just like you do in the haunted house, huh? Nice.”

         I really, really wanted to relax. Even a Groupon massage is a luxury and I wanted to enjoy it. Let me say, too, this guy definitely was a muscle-y burly dude—but he had very feminine hands. They were kinda small and shaped like a woman’s and soft from so much lotioning, I guess. That helped for a little white, because I could pretend he actually WAS a woman. But for the most part my brain just kept interjecting with, “Please don’t get a boner on me. Please don’t get a boner on me. I should have read the fine print on the Groupon. Please don't get a boner on me...." 

        Also, he was way stronger than a woman. In case you don’t know what it feel like to massaged by a professional male massage therapist, it feels like this: “Ow. Ow. Ow. Owie. Oh that feels ni—ow.”

      By the time it was done, I felt terrible by all accounts. But after he left the room and I slowly opened my eyes I realized that I actually felt really loosened up. I felt like all my knotted worry muscles were released. 

      I gave him a really big tip---both because I felt bad for being late and because I was certain that my leg stubble probably ripped the fragile skin right off of his lady hands.