A massage can do wonders for a tight butt. Just sayin. Read that whichever way you like, and you’ll probably be right.
I just had one. It was awesome. The massage, that is. The tight butt? Not so much. Because, a tight butt is pretty much—how to say—a pain in the freaking ass! Not to be rude, just literal.
I want to write about my tight butt today. Why, you say?
Because writing is what I do. It’s how I get through the hard shtuffs. And few things can bring me to cry “Uncle!” more quickly than pain: Butt pain. Neck pain. Shoulder pain. Pain pain. Any pain.
I’ve seen low back pain in a number of clients and friends over the years. At its worst it makes people double over.
Me? I wasn’t doubled over, but neither was I my fold-my-legs-every-which-way self. And by yesterday this butt pain was day 5 and counting.
Dream from weeks ago: Dorothy, the Scarecrow, and a girl wake up in an apple orchard. Someone says: “You put everything into the dream and you wake up and you notice it was only a dream, and the people that were in the dream only have a vague memory of it, too.”
An ocean of sadness comes right there. By which I mean here, now.
Something about illusion. Something about innocence. Something about seeing that the Wizard you’ve been pinning your hopes on is just an old man, with eyebrows and lord-help-us-nose hairs as long as the livelong day, bent at the waist to boot, probably on account of a pain in his butt too.
You look around and see flimsy where you had thought things were strong.
And you see gone where you thought stay.
You see empty where you thought it’d be full.
You taste salt and you notice it’s streaming down your own cheeks.
You check your itty bitty nest egg and the crow has gone and robbed it.
You look around and it’s freaking dark outside.
You call out and not even your own echo comes back.
What’s a girl to do?
Cry some more. ✓
Get on her knees and pray. ✓
Make tea. ✓
Notice thoughts. ✓
Examine thoughts. ✓
Call a friend. ✓
Visit said friend. ✓
Go for a walk. ✓
A run. ✓
Or a waddle with bent waist. ✓
Start therapy. ✓
Make more tea. ✓
Pee again. ✓
Try to find the funny. ✓
Write! Right. Where was I?
Tight, it’s been so tight. Like tight-assed and all that comes with that. Fingers closed in grip. Calculating.
Rest? Hard to do on hyper-alert.
A dog circles and circles. Can’t lie down and get comfortable to sleep already.
In all this, I was making gift certificates for my massage therapy ittybiz, with Mother’s Day in mind. I had sent my dear dear dear friend my text so that he could use his magic formatting powers and programs to make it beeeeautiful.
He sent me back a couple versions, one of which included a picture of a beautiful young woman gazing ever so first-time-momishly at the baby she was holding ever so carefully and tentatively.
You could not squeeze more love into her arms, her hands, her gaze, you just couldn’t. If you tried it would just spill all over the floor.
The beautiful woman was my mom. I cried because my dear-times-three-friend had, for whatever reason, dug up that picture (which I didn’t even know he had ever scanned when we were living together) and thought to use it in a gift certificate for my business on mother’s day.
I cried because it’s not true that I don’t know what it feels like to be held safely.
And I cried because careful and oh-so-tentative are not exclusive of love. At all.
And I cried because I noticed, again, that everyone and everything is always doing its very best with what it knows, with what it has, with what it believes, with what it understands. Everything including a tight butt.
After my most-wonderful-massage today I told my therapist that I felt like my tires had been balanced. Like some kind of realignment.