the view out of my bedroom's window every morning, one of the many perks to getting up at 6 everyday
Her palm pressed against mine. I sighed closing my eyes. Kittens with whiskers. Raindrops on roses. Silky hands. They explored my naked skin dressing it with the silk of her touch. Never had I felt so clothed while naked.
Well, nearly naked. The hands left, I heard the squirt of oil, and then welcomed their return as they kneaded my triceps. There are certain places on the human body that you wouldn't expect to feel to like silky goodness when rubbed, squeezed, and touched. Kind of like deposits of relaxation waiting to be mined by the hands that can pull the sword from the stone. This girl knew them all. She obviously had found my treasure map and knew where to dig, and I was reaping the rewards. Triceps are surprisingly susceptible to squeezing. The palm of the hand when stretch and fingers when pinched were heavenly. The feet, oh the feet...
I'm pretty sure I would've enjoyed the legs, particularly the calves and quads if it weren't for the hair. Next time I go for an oil massage, I think I'll shave them. Otherwise, it's not a wholly unenjoyable sensation, but the pulling of leg hair doesn't fit mesh per se with rest of the menu.
Twenty-one, a socially-constructed right of passage for many young Americans, feels not much older than twenty. But then again perhaps the very apathy with which I approach the age is representative of maturity, the conscious and honest recognition of Self in all its forms. I've learned to laugh a little bit more. My parents sent me slippers and a scarf, my friends here thought it was cute. I wore the scarf on my head like a Russian grandmother, and I'm wishing I was wearing the slippers right now in the coffee shop because the AC is freezing my sandled feet. I've learned to recognize limits. It is simply impossible for me to sleep 6 hours a night for a whole week and expect to feel good on Friday. And I've learned that "limits" are simply blueprints for comfort; they are not the fringe of ability.
Last night, I opted on the side of comfort. I could have crossed border of my limits, tested the limits of my alcohol tolerance. But, after a week of work that'd take too much energy. So my roommate, our friend Tiffany, and I went to "Oriental Taipan" for massages. It was my birthday celebration. We got there around 12 AM just as they were closing. They sent us to a room: dimly lit, highly fragrant, personal shower, robes, sink, etc. We were royalty. They brought us fruit, tea, and boxer shorts.
I changed into the boxers, lay down on the massage bed, and enjoyed.
I woke up at eight this morning, despite the fact that I went to bed around 2 AM. I think the massage counted for a good three hours of sleep. I'm feeling good and ready to march on. The slippers my parents gave are actually the most comfortable things in the world. I'm listening to Dave Matthews Band. I got tickets to see Talib Kweli in Beijing on Tuesday. It's Saturday. I just spoke English on the phone for a good hour. It's really been the good life. Year 22, I've arrived.
(P.S. for a blog ten times better than mine, a incredibly well written and insightful description of travels in Morocco, check out this link: http://www.speakingspice.blogspot.com/. For those of you who know her, it's Lauren's, one of my good friends I went to Xi'an with three years ago. My word time flies.)
Well, nearly naked. The hands left, I heard the squirt of oil, and then welcomed their return as they kneaded my triceps. There are certain places on the human body that you wouldn't expect to feel to like silky goodness when rubbed, squeezed, and touched. Kind of like deposits of relaxation waiting to be mined by the hands that can pull the sword from the stone. This girl knew them all. She obviously had found my treasure map and knew where to dig, and I was reaping the rewards. Triceps are surprisingly susceptible to squeezing. The palm of the hand when stretch and fingers when pinched were heavenly. The feet, oh the feet...
I'm pretty sure I would've enjoyed the legs, particularly the calves and quads if it weren't for the hair. Next time I go for an oil massage, I think I'll shave them. Otherwise, it's not a wholly unenjoyable sensation, but the pulling of leg hair doesn't fit mesh per se with rest of the menu.
Twenty-one, a socially-constructed right of passage for many young Americans, feels not much older than twenty. But then again perhaps the very apathy with which I approach the age is representative of maturity, the conscious and honest recognition of Self in all its forms. I've learned to laugh a little bit more. My parents sent me slippers and a scarf, my friends here thought it was cute. I wore the scarf on my head like a Russian grandmother, and I'm wishing I was wearing the slippers right now in the coffee shop because the AC is freezing my sandled feet. I've learned to recognize limits. It is simply impossible for me to sleep 6 hours a night for a whole week and expect to feel good on Friday. And I've learned that "limits" are simply blueprints for comfort; they are not the fringe of ability.
Last night, I opted on the side of comfort. I could have crossed border of my limits, tested the limits of my alcohol tolerance. But, after a week of work that'd take too much energy. So my roommate, our friend Tiffany, and I went to "Oriental Taipan" for massages. It was my birthday celebration. We got there around 12 AM just as they were closing. They sent us to a room: dimly lit, highly fragrant, personal shower, robes, sink, etc. We were royalty. They brought us fruit, tea, and boxer shorts.
I changed into the boxers, lay down on the massage bed, and enjoyed.
I woke up at eight this morning, despite the fact that I went to bed around 2 AM. I think the massage counted for a good three hours of sleep. I'm feeling good and ready to march on. The slippers my parents gave are actually the most comfortable things in the world. I'm listening to Dave Matthews Band. I got tickets to see Talib Kweli in Beijing on Tuesday. It's Saturday. I just spoke English on the phone for a good hour. It's really been the good life. Year 22, I've arrived.
(P.S. for a blog ten times better than mine, a incredibly well written and insightful description of travels in Morocco, check out this link: http://www.speakingspice.blogspot.com/. For those of you who know her, it's Lauren's, one of my good friends I went to Xi'an with three years ago. My word time flies.)
2 comments:
What beauty to wake up to! Happy birthday, darling son!
Hey, You are not 21 yet. According to the time here (7:47am), you still have about 10 hours to go. But we are very please with your expected arrival. Happy Birthday !!!
Great comments from last couple blogs. A barber (or salon) shop and restaurant maybe a small universe to start showing and experiencing the intriguing goodnesss of people.
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