Less than 24 hours before I’m due for a massage.

Usually, that would be a good thing. Until I went to hang up from booking the appointment and heard the woman say, ‘Ok, you’re all set. 11:00 am Tuesday with Dave.

DAVE?

A man? Oh no. Not sure about you, but getting a full-body rubdown from a man I’ve just met makes me a little uneasy. Not sure why, really, since a male doctor delivered both of my boys, and Dave won’t even be seeing those parts. I’m not used to it, as my husband would rather watch four Hannah Montana episodes back-to-back than rub my feet. He doesn’t do feet. Or necks or shoulders…or anything…for that matter. And in his defense, he’s ok with not getting them in return. Not his thing, he says.

But, a man masseuse? It’s just awkward. Kinda like those few moments when you’re sitting in a paper gown and socks while waiting for the doctor to come in, that kind of awkward. Or when you step on the scale for the nurse and hold your breath that she doesn’t repeat your weight out loud…that kind of awkward. And then there’s the flip. That moment when the masseuse lifts the sheet and, hopefully, looks away while you turn over on to your stomach. I wonder if Dave has ever had a client skip the flip. That wouldn’t be weird at all, would it? No different than skipping the guac at a Mexican restaurant, or leaving the whipped cream off of a sundae.

I’m hoping Dave is short for Davita. Either that, or I’m wearing sweats.

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