Doomtown

I work with a guy who comes to work wearing sandals and baggy pants. He travels to Bali to learn Thai massage, dates a yoga instructor, and is the epitome of what you think about when you hear the word hippy . I got short with him earlier this evening, angry because he had gone over with his last client, making me late with the next. His tendency to do this has often made me wonder if he had given up on the concept of time as just another shackle placed on us by The Man. I hate being late more than anything. If that makes me part of the establishment, then so be it. Sensing my anger, he looked at me with his usual Zen-like calm and told me to, "Calm down, man. Don't let that negative energy infect you and mess up your massage," or some such thing. I wanted to stab him in his throat while yelling, "NAMASTE, MOTHERFUCKER!"  Cleaning my chakras is gonna be a real bitch after this one. I later learned my anger was unwarranted as the appointment was squeez...

I'm getting old. I know I'm getting old because lately, I've found myself questioning my beliefs regarding God and the meaning of life. That, and gray hair, aching joints, and the popping sounds each of those joints make every time I move. It's always encouraging as a massage therapist when the eighty year old client you're working on laughingly claims you snap, crackle, and pop more than he does. But mostly, it's the belief thing, and it's got me wondering if there really is a point to this crazy thing we call life. In the movies, when a man has a midlife crisis, he really begins to worry about death and what comes after. He also buys a toupee, trades his clunker for a fast car, and has numerous affairs with women half his age. At least, that's what Hollywood has led me to believe. I've got a boyfriend who satisfies all my needs (i.e. He buys me coffee when I run out...oh, and the sex! He makes with the sex. Can't forget that.)I don't have...