Listen to Karen tell the story…
Had a trip to physiotherapy last week. Jaysus I might as well have been going on a date, with all the preparation. In fact the last time I had gone to this particular physiotherapist, I ‘was’ going on a date. No, not with him, Jaysus, he’s young enough to be my son, not that that’d matter. In fact, as it turned out, I could have been going out with his grandfather, such was the apparition that had appeared before me at the designated meeting point for that date. Now in fairness, the lovely physiotherapist, when I had told him about my impending date, had proclaimed to know the aul lad in question. He had been a bit sceptical as to whether he’d be my type. Sure he was right, he wasn’t, but that didn’t stop me having a bit of craic, once we had got over the initial awkwardness. We went to see two different bands, I had a bop, then bought chips on the way home. All on a Sunday afternoon!
Anyway, I digress, my trip back to physio, a year and a half later. Getting prepared was a mission and a half. Being a single aul one, I’m not always bothered, in the winter, whether I have hairy legs, in fact hairy anywhere. Sure, if I’d been christened Mary, I could aptly have called Hairy Mary, but only in the winter mind. Now, if was to wear a dress, with those sheer tights, the ones that make your fat legs slimmer, hold in the flab, have a nice sheen, to disguise the cellulite, though they do show the varicose veins, I’d make sure to shave the aul legs. However, I hadn’t been wearing any of those nice tights recently, so you can imagine the state of my pins.
Not being one to go in for that waxing lark, I have had enough pain between arthritis and shingles, without having to pay someone to add to that, it was going to have to be another option. Without the foresight to buy hair remover, there was no choice but to grab a new razor from the bathroom cabinet to do the job. I chose the shower for my mission, which wasn’t one of my greatest ideas. Being a visually challenged aul one, once I had taken off my varifocal milk bottles, I couldn’t find the hair on my legs. Blindly lathering my skin with shower gel I just applied the razor blindly. At one stage, I was convinced I had tufts of hair on particular areas of those limbs, mentally trying to recall when I last wore a dress, such was the shock. Then I realised, sure they were just the varicose veins a bit blurred with my lack of vision. It’s like when you get into the shower to wash your hair, reach for the shampoo, without your glasses and only when there doesn’t seem to be any lather in your hair, do you realise that no, that was actually the conditioner. So, washing out the conditioner, is the only option, with the shampoo of course and then starting all over again. No wonder I always end up with more conditioner than shampoo. I have thought of wearing my prescription goggles in the shower, but settled on buying completely different brands of shampoo and conditioner, in different shaped bottles.
So, hairy legs and other unkempt body parts sorted, body washed and rinsed, out from the shower I stepped, grabbing the towel with one hand, wrapping it around my wet bod. Deciding to inspect the results of my mission, I grabbed my specs from the sink and placed them on my face. ‘Jesus Mary and Joseph’, the bathroom was full of steam. I couldn’t see a thing, not my legs, arms, belly, even the shower. It took about 30 seconds to realise, that sure it wasn’t the bathroom full of steam, but the glasses, which had fogged up, so off they came. I wiped them with the towel, but sure they steamed up again in seconds. There was nothing for it, I had to leave the specs off for a while. The hairless inspection was going to take some time to complete at this rate.
While waiting, I decided to put some oil on my legs, to moisten them Then of course the wait for the oil to dry in began, before putting on trousers. There was nothing for it but to use the time wisely, so over the bath I bent, naked, to give it a clean, the shower being in the bath ‘n’ all that. Jaysus, I must have been a right sight, with my ample boobies dangling over the side of the bath. Didn’t help the aul back either but it brought a smile to my face as I remembered a conversation with a friend the day before. Apparently she had seen an advert in a local paper for an aul lad looking for a woman to give him a massage. He described himself as an ‘attractive, fit seventy year old’ and he would pay £30 and hour. My friend had jokingly commented on how she was getting half that doing her job and sure wouldn’t it be a handy number. We were having the craic about it and how it wouldn’t be good for your back, never mind anywhere else if this aul lad wanted something like a ‘happy ending’. Sure it occurred to me that it’d be an ideal job for an arthritic aul one with a bad back and droopy boobs. Sure you wouldn’t have to be massaging him with your hands at all. The boobs would be doing all the work and would be much more enjoyable for the aul lad, attractive, fit or not. And there’d be no strain on your back as the boobs would be resting on his back and sure you could be giving him a boob massage just by doing your physio exercises. The mind boggles.
Once I was happy that the oil was dried in enough to safely dress without staining my clothes, I picked the largest Bridget Jones specials I could find. If I had to strip down, there was no point in wearing one of those fierce uncomfortable alphabeti numbers, you know the G string knickers that are grand if you’re a slim young one with a firm arse, whatever size it is. Sure you don’t mind a bit of discomfort when you’re a young one, if it makes you feel sexy. As you get older, you need to go further along the alphabet to feel sexy…W is a good one…WINE, now that’s guaranteed to make you feel sexy, especially after a bottle. Sure you could feel like an absolute dog until you’ve necked a bottle and then a quick look in the mirror and it’s like you’re a sex goddess. That’s when you officially have your beer goggles on. A little later in the evening and you progress to Z, well a couple of ZZZZs, when you’re having fantastic dreams, sexier than you could have imagined. Unfortunately when you wake up from those dreams, you may have regressed to the beginning of the alphabet, as you feel the hangover kick in or indeed look in the mirror and the first word or letter out of your mouth is AAAAA.
With a nice lacy bra, to counteract the Bridgets, I dressed in comfortable gear, knowing I’d have to undress to a certain extent when I got to my appointment. I pinned my curly mop on top of my head and applied some lipstick and eyeliner, Sure I never go anywhere without my lipstick, no-one would recognise me, usually red or pink. I didn’t however put on foundation. It would be bad enough leaving puckered imprints on the paper sheet, on the massage bed.
The appointment itself went well, with initial hilarity, recounting the dancing date with our mutual acquaintance. Filling in the gaps in both of our lives, since my last visit, was a good distraction from the uncomfortable pressure on certain areas of my body, which needed to be addressed. No, not undressed. Sure I had had to do enough of that when I had got there and as he is half my age, it was nearly as uncomfortable as my aches and pains. However, as they say, no pain no gain and if I was going to get any relief, I had to go through the motions and be thankful for small mercies.
In rare quiet moments, on my part anyway, my mind drifted to the job of topless masseur and again I smiled, thinking how there’d be no need to be worrying about stripping off in front of the aul fella in that job. Sure my boobs are my best asset and if he insisted on a gawk as I arrived, sure I could be wearing all the gear, including the firm shiny tights, or even firm shiny stockings with suspenders, with one of those plunge bodysuits, (Jaysus, I’m even researching those while I write), I’d definitely feel sexy then, I wouldn’t need to get to the letter G at all. A double D underwire basque would give me all the sexiness I need. Mind you, I’d have a job wearing those stiletto thingies that I wore in my youth. Sure I could wear wedges, or those car to bar fancy shoes for sexy aul ones…I’d only have to walk from the door to the massage couch. I could slip them on outside, just before I made my entrance. Though I’d have to stand in them for an hour if I wanted to earn that 30 quid. Could you imagine me wincing, and maybe going AAAHHHH…’n’ the aul fella thinking I was turned on giving him a booby massage and grinning thinking he was definitely getting his happy ending. Or, alternatively, could you imagine me being at the right height to be able to give him that booby massage, then slipping off my shoes, reducing rapidly in height and those floppy boobies, covered in the oil from his back, slipping off himself, and nearly toppling me over with the impact. It’d be ‘The End’, happy or not.
‘Ouch’…abruptly brought out of my reverie, with the pressure on a particularly painful spot in my back, I resigned myself to being the client, rather than the Boobelescent Femme Fatale as my witty physio distracted me once more with funny stories. The session soon came to an end and the redress of shame had to be endured, even more painfully, as it wasn’t even in frontal view. In other words my fat arse and varicose veins were very clearly in sight. Ah, I’m sure he’s seen worse, maybe not much worse, but it wasn’t as if I was on the pull. Jaysus, I make sure I’m fully dressed when I’m doing that. Even with beer goggle wearing targets.
Fully redressed, mad curly hair escaping from clips carefully inserted 2 hours earlier, the remainder of pink lipstick clinging to my lips and eyes smudged black from that earlier applied liner, I thought how much worse it would actually have been, had I had to redress from a frontal view. That cheered me up somewhat. Cheery chappie physio made another appointment to continue the torture, While discussing my treatment, I asked him if swimming would be a good alternative to my currently impossible beloved walks, to which he agreed enthusiastically. Always having been a lover of swimming, I walked out of that treatment room, with a secret grin, picturing the new swimsuit I had in mind. Ok, maybe I couldn’t disguise the fat and cellulite ridden thighs and varicose vein infested legs, but an alphabetti number would be a great distraction. Red, underwire firm support DD, with matching red lipstick, sure I might get a few offers while I just have my upper body above water. As long as they’re not from ‘attractive fit 70 year olds looking for a massage’. Sure beauty is in the eye of the beholder ‘n’ all that, and though
I’m all for cheering people up, I don’t want to be holding anything that makes aul lads happy, at the beginning or the end, even for £30.00 an hour!