Saturday was a day for indulgences and because I chose to outdo it, I split them between two friends to avoid an open shame spiral. Hey, it’s Valentine’s week, and valentine--for the first time in a while--I have not.
Open wallet, retract overdrawn debit card, and attempt to make up for it.
First I prepared myself with a rigorous Pilates class on Friday night, from which my ribs are still sore. This was my “oh-let’s-pretend-we’re-earning-it”. And it almost felt as though I had when I ordered the buttery, creamy, ooey-gooey sweet potato mash smothered in parmesan to accompany my fat turkey patty at the newly-opened Stand. A generous sip of the brunette's homemade ginger ale (which she said went great with her cheeseburger and onion marmalade on brioche), and we were off in the freezing wind to cash in on one of the city’s luscious spa deals for such an occasion (a chamomile soufflé facial and Swedish massage).
If the workout felt great while I was eating, it didn’t serve me as well during the massage. It felt like the culmination of six months of exquisite pain as she used her elbow on my back. But nothing prepared me for my Russian masseuse’s clinical style—at one point I found myself on my stomach noticing a cool breeze to glance around and find I was sans towel—well actually, the masseuse had pulled it clear off! I asked the brunette—did this happen to you? (Her massage was by a man, and sadly, she did not get the same treatment…how unfortunate, we joked).
That night I braved the weather again, for the good of mankind, or for the good of crispy rosemary chicken, truffle-fries and vanilla gelato at Cafeteria with a blonde (I have had more than a few weekend dinner dates with girls, brunette and blonde, and no, I am not ashamed, not anymore). And cocktails. A white peach margarita, a lychee-grapefruit martini, by the time we nuzzled up to the open pit fire at Aspen with some delightful alcoholic blackberry puree, I was full, buzzed, and wanting a nap.
On Sunday I was exhausted from all my pampering, my self-serving, totally selfish Saturday and spent it cleaning, doing laundry and paying penance in the form of vegetables and folding and watching my beloved college basketball team let another win slip away. My roommate brought home an advance copy of Factory Girl and we watched it on the HD projector and surround sound to cheer ourselves up (we didn’t love it, good acting but I’d advise against paying the money to see it in the theater), which didn’t work because the biopic and subject remains pretty darn sad.
Open wallet, retract overdrawn debit card, and attempt to make up for it.
First I prepared myself with a rigorous Pilates class on Friday night, from which my ribs are still sore. This was my “oh-let’s-pretend-we’re-earning-it”. And it almost felt as though I had when I ordered the buttery, creamy, ooey-gooey sweet potato mash smothered in parmesan to accompany my fat turkey patty at the newly-opened Stand. A generous sip of the brunette's homemade ginger ale (which she said went great with her cheeseburger and onion marmalade on brioche), and we were off in the freezing wind to cash in on one of the city’s luscious spa deals for such an occasion (a chamomile soufflé facial and Swedish massage).
If the workout felt great while I was eating, it didn’t serve me as well during the massage. It felt like the culmination of six months of exquisite pain as she used her elbow on my back. But nothing prepared me for my Russian masseuse’s clinical style—at one point I found myself on my stomach noticing a cool breeze to glance around and find I was sans towel—well actually, the masseuse had pulled it clear off! I asked the brunette—did this happen to you? (Her massage was by a man, and sadly, she did not get the same treatment…how unfortunate, we joked).
That night I braved the weather again, for the good of mankind, or for the good of crispy rosemary chicken, truffle-fries and vanilla gelato at Cafeteria with a blonde (I have had more than a few weekend dinner dates with girls, brunette and blonde, and no, I am not ashamed, not anymore). And cocktails. A white peach margarita, a lychee-grapefruit martini, by the time we nuzzled up to the open pit fire at Aspen with some delightful alcoholic blackberry puree, I was full, buzzed, and wanting a nap.
On Sunday I was exhausted from all my pampering, my self-serving, totally selfish Saturday and spent it cleaning, doing laundry and paying penance in the form of vegetables and folding and watching my beloved college basketball team let another win slip away. My roommate brought home an advance copy of Factory Girl and we watched it on the HD projector and surround sound to cheer ourselves up (we didn’t love it, good acting but I’d advise against paying the money to see it in the theater), which didn’t work because the biopic and subject remains pretty darn sad.
Tonight it’s back to Pilates, tomorrow Westville East with a different girl. I like this cycle. Since I’m single, and all my applications are in, and I pay my taxes, I’m considering continuing. Rinse and repeat. Working through any exquisite pain until my life is simply exquisite…
5 comments:
sounds fun--happy valentines!
K! I've never been ashamed of dinner dates with girls. What are we supposed to do, eat ramen alone on the couch before meeting up at a bar, just because we're single and a boy didn't ask us out to dinner? xoxo, the Blonde
Glad to hear you had an enjoyable weekend... It's odd how we can find comfort and solace in routines, and yet the next moment we are feeling stagnant and screaming for any sort of change.
I am hoping everyone knows that this title was taken from a Sex and the City Episode.. you're not original.
Oh anon, everyone knows that! The episode was just on the other day and clearly K was referencing it. You jackass.
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