Why I Can’t Seem to Relax. Even With a Frangipani Up My Arse.

I’m not very good at relaxing, it’s never been one of my strengths. I am however very good at operating on high speed for extended periods of time. In fact, I believe I thrive on chaos.  But everyone needs to stop once in a while.

I’ve tried meditating, yoga, steam rooms, music and even hypnotherapy. But during all of these activities, I find my mind wandering off to crazy places, none of which have anything to do with the supposed relaxation I am meant to be experiencing.

For instance, during a meditation with an ex Buddhist Monk who had spent close to 30 years living in the rainforests of Thailand, I worried for an entire hour that he knew I wasn’t relaxed. Like he could somehow read my mind with his monkey zen and knew that I knew that he knew that I was nowhere near relaxed. That I was a nothing but a fraud and didn’t deserve to be in or anywhere around his grace.

I know I should be meditating, or listening to relaxation cd’s, or doing the happy baby pose in a boiling hot room with strangers assholes inches from my face and trying not to fart. I know I need these things. I’m wound up. I’m a mess. But I just suck at all of it.

Massages are the worst. I’m ok with foot rubs, but anything that involves the whole body experience is a seriously mixed bag of emotions. First, I’m ticklish around the hips. And unless I have sweeping whole hand movements in that region, I turn into a cackling mess that is really hard to recover from.

Then there’s the nudity. You know, the massages that involve you getting pretty nude and having your rude parts out a bit.

This one time I was on what looked like an autopsy table in London at a very swanky day spa. You are completely nude on this thing while some random showers you and scrubs your entire body clean. After that, you get a massage. During the shower part of this experience, the young lady asked me if I had fake boobs. And if so could I tell her who did them because they were spectacular (they are). I said no, they were real. But from that moment on I felt like a lab rat and there was no relaxation to be found. Some things should just be left unsaid.

Another time I spent a whole bunch of cash in a 5-star resort in Thailand during my honeymoon with The Husband. We had splashed out for the 3-hour couples massage which sounded really nice. The first part of it they made you take a shower. Fine. The second part of it they put us in a milky bath with flowers. Also fine. Until the bit where two ladies walked into the bathroom and said it was time to get out. And then just stood there holding a towel just a little bit out of reach. Um, wait to the what now? There was no guidebook telling us we were being prudish for not wanting to climb out of the bath with a frangipani clinging to our asshole in front of two random Thai chicks. The nervous laughter from both of us simply killed the mood.

During this stay on a stunning Fiji Island, I chose to have an hour-long massage. I was determined to relax fully and even possibly fall asleep. I stripped off my clothes leaving just my underpants and lay down on the table. The masseur then began covering me up with some towels and tucking the towel in between my legs to protect my modesty. Well, the modesty went out the window midway through when I felt a warm island breeze shooting up my nether regions during the upper legwork, leaving me slightly concerned I was going to be accidentally finger banged by a Fijian goddess.

I mean, that much oil and some rhythmic strokes can really take a turn for the worse, even accidentally. That was me done, I was laughing like a hyena as she was trying to massage my legs and my sides. Chill factor Zero. Totally not her fault. I just suck at relaxing.

A few years ago during a particularly stressful time in my life, I took a 5 day trip to a place called Gaia which is Olivia Newton John’s retreat in the hinterland of northern NSW. It is spectacular.  I spent 5 days eating, getting massages and reading a book. Just what the doctor ordered. There was one young therapist there called Solomon who seemed so incredibly popular that he was hard to book a spot with. He must be a maestro! I thought. I was very keen to see if he would produce the goods for the worlds most strung out woman.

Once I made my appointment time, I threw caution to the wind when he said I could choose to wear the paper underpants or just go freestyle. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was extremely hot that I chose the freestyle option, I was just embracing my tree hugging hippy vibe for $1000 a day. Actually hugging a tree could possibly have been the better and more budget-friendly option. Nah, this place is paradise and worth every cent.

Solomon is a complete professional, but even his expert hands were no match for the hinterland breeze and a wayward sarong. I’m pretty sure he saw deep inside my asshole soul and possibly deep inside a few orifi (is that a word?) during our hour together. I tried hard to relax, but really I was just wondering if my labia majora were nervously waving at him as he manoeuvred his way around my body. The poor guy. Booked solid. I’ve no idea why.

So that is me and relaxing. I’m just not good at it. I’ve got way too many body hangups and am just not well versed in the art of releasing my stress without worrying what someone can or can’t hear me thinking. But I’ll keep at it, I’m not ready to give up yet. I’ll be forever on a quest for someone that can pat me on the head and convince me that it’s ok just to breathe and take a load off.

THE END

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