So I’m no longer working behind a desk trying to hock spa memberships to hot moms and confused suburbanites just looking for a happy ending. I handed in my walking papers and my key yesterday. While I loved my boss, I feel more sprung than Lil’ Wayne walking out of Rikers.
Since I last updated, I’ve had a transvaginal sonogram, learned to put my feet above my head, started using Sanskrit terms in conversation, and was taught by the former therapist for the Jets how to administer a proper gluteal massage. Yes, really.
Professionally, I’m teaching yoga, subbing at gyms and studios, and stopping just shy of throwing myself at the feet of program directors and studio owners, begging for a full-time slot. (The only reason why I’m not groveling at their Lululemon boots is ‘cause it’s fucking cold out and my knee hurts.)
And it turns out I can’t exactly quit this whole writing thing either.
I’m in a massage program twice as hard and three times as ridiculous as Unnamed College of Health Professions last semester. Every day that I’m at my new school, I’m looking for the cameras. I swear, if you think that MTV’s Buckwild is a horrible representation of American youth, I have news for you: Long Island is worse. Also, if you have trouble with people using the word “axe” in place of “ask,” maybe don’t venture this far east. And by “people” in that sentence I mean “professors.” At least the academic curriculum is as rigorous as the sex life of a rave promoter in the ‘90s.
And speaking of, I’m still single with stories.
On that note, I’m off to get an endoscopy (not a euphemism, for real.) Stay tuned.