Indivisible: A Valentine’s Gift for the Shamers and Self-Blamers
by Christina Hubbard
I drive by Massage Envy twice a week. Some days I let myself ogle the purple letters and even indulge myself to look at the hours posted in white on the glass. Gosh, how my shoulders ache. That would be so nice.
I’ve ventured in once or twice after getting permission with a birthday gift card. But I’m a power-through, independent woman. I shake my head. Who am I kidding? I don’t need to be touched. I’ll just envy those who can afford such luxuries. I’m fine. I pull away from my parking spot at the chiropractor’s office, two doors down, where I’ve been getting adjusted for four years, almost weekly. Repression at it’s best.
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I drive by Massage Envy twice a week. Some days I let myself ogle the purple letters and even indulge myself to look at the hours posted in white on the glass. Gosh, how my shoulders ache. That would be so nice.
I’ve ventured in once or twice after getting permission with a birthday gift card. But I’m a power-through, independent woman. I shake my head. Who am I kidding? I don’t need to be touched. I’ll just envy those who can afford such luxuries. I’m fine. I pull away from my parking spot at the chiropractor’s office, two doors down, where I’ve been getting adjusted for four years, almost weekly. Repression at it’s best.
Read more »
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