Look, but don’t touch
I hate being touched. Most of my friends know this, and if I actually allow a hug consider it a compliment. Some friends, like S, take it as a challenge. I think it’s just my personality. I also prefer cold, rainy, gray London in winter to anywhere tropical. (The people don’t talk to you, the food is awful and the scotch is great. Oh, and there are books. To read, while people ignore you. Heaven.)
So it is with the greatest illicit thrill imaginable that I say: I’m getting a massage. Seriously. I booked it today. Oh, and I’m also getting a salt scrub after. Take that!
I blame the weird hippie chanting yoga. I went to John’s class with him (yoga! with other people! and chanting!) and loved it. Now I’m trying all sorts of weird things! First it was microwaving eggs and now this!
Geez, if this keeps up I might actually start, oh I don’t know, smiling and not being snarky.
But don’t hold your breath.