Feeling: THE BURN
Self massage is enthusiastically encouraged here.
From the few therapists I’ve engaged with in massage, reiki, etc, each one has emphasised the importance of me engaging in effleurage with my knee each morn and eve.
See, my knee is a touch temperamental. I haven’t injured it or anything horrendous and irreversibly restricting; it’s just a bit weak in the ligament area and when I’m tired or pushing myself too hard, it starts turning inwards. Practicing asanas for hours each day has it tweaking and trembling, and I now vow to actually use the strengthening plan carefully devised by the trainer at the gym when I get back to NZ. But anyway, here and now.
So Tiger Balm is my new Boyf. I wake up to it each AM, go to sleep with its tingle each PM, and it’s a constant in my bag so that whenever I can get in a sneaky rubdown I have the necessary ointments on hand.
And tonight it got to third base.
I had just concluded a lengthy ten minutes of manipulating the mound of my patella, and was pulling on my under garments for bed. It’s hot here at night so I have taken to only wearing a pair of undies for slumbering in.
Having just been washed, the knickers were inside out. I hastily whipped them right and yanked them on. Unfortunately, my hands had not also been doused in soapy suds.
Oh Tiger Balm, you absolute bitch.
Ever had an itchy bite so insane you thought you’d go mental? Imagine it frictioned with sandpaper. Then tattooed over. On fire. That’s what my nether regions have just experienced.
I am currently cupping my bits with freezing water as I write this with my other arm outstretched. My fanny is ferociously furious, and my anus is angrily antagonised.
It brings me back to Judith my kindergarten teacher back in Lower Hutt: Always. WASH YOUR HANDS.
Oh Tiger Balm, hear me roar.