Yesterday Mr. Cranky Fibro Girl and I went to see our massage therapist, a woman we love and adore who’s been working on us for about a decade. On the weekends she works out of her home, which is fun because she is also an animal lover, so there’s always a collection of felines around for us to play with.
However, she also has a bird. A large, vocal, cage-rattling bird who kind of undoes a lot of the benefits of my massage because, in addition to the myriad other things I fear in this world, I am really afraid of birds.
My husband though, loves to visit with the bird, because the bird loves men. L-o-v-e-s them. (Women, not so much) So when I go in to get my massage, not only does he chat with the bird and give her treats, he opens the cage and lets her out so they can play together. I often walk back to the treatment room to the accompaniment of conversations like this:
My husband (whispering sweet nothings to the bird): “Don’t worry baby. As soon as that lady leaves I’ll let you out, and then we can be together.”
But that’s nothing compared to what I see after my massage is done. And let me just tell you, there is nothing that mars your sweet Massage Afterglow quite like walking into a room to see your husband being hand-humped by a huge bird shrieking in ecstasy, while shooting you a smug look that says,
“Suck it bitch. This man is all mine.”
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