After a semi-busy day slaving in the coal mine, I headed out with 2 pals to Spa Night at my favorite restaurant, The Melting Pot! Luckily, on Spa Night, everything is scaled down a bit so a fondue dinner fit into my diet plan. I didn't have the option of taking a swim in the Gorgonzola Port. While my supposedly peach margarita was too strong (I took one breath and burned our waiter's eyebrows off), the cheese was ooey, gooey liquid Heaven!
And as an added bonus, we got free arm and hand massages (hand massages, as some of you may know, throws an orgasmic sensation my way...which could have proved awkward in a room full of strangers), parfin dips which made my hands feel like velvet, and garlic-wine seasoning that Phoebe used to shove in her purse post-meal. And while I didn't get to rub my velvet hands on a big, hairy man (sensing he needed some space, I happily slept in my own bed after rockin' the Pilates, yo), it was still a lovely evening.
Any lovely evening does not guarantee an equally lovely day. While things seemed to be going along swimmingly as I gleamed the cubicle, the Puffin in my life made a joke (so he says...I'm not going into details) that was just a big OUCH! I could have just ignored the whole thing but it stung. And it just brought to the top of my head a lot of things that have stung in the past. I'm expected to be a certain way, strong and tough...not depressed, not emotional, but I'm not a robot. Though a gal can dream!
So the ride home was a lot of Phil Collins, Morrissey and crying.
You can only hold things in for so long? You shouldn't have to hurt.
On the flip side, I successfully completed the second day of my bikini plan. Embracing the no bread, minimal sweets, Fast Food ban aspects of my chow time. I was picked on a little as everyone stuffed Taco Bell down their holes at work. But after 40 days of sacrifice when I'm lounging pool side, slugging down Daquiris, and smooching on my man with no worries about if I look foolish, those tacos won't mean shit to me!
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