Almost

Isn't it true, whenever someone tries to tell you how great someone else is, the person they are describing turns out to be a total asshole?
After months of hearing how great my client's trainer is, she did me the favor of referring him to me for a massage.
This fucking mindless meathead, huge in his muscles and small in the mind actually thought he was doing me a favor by showing up to his appointment last week. The moment I met him in our office waiting area, I could tell he was disappointed when he saw me. He literally lifted an eyebrow and gave me the once over twice. And this is how the beginning of our meeting went.
"Hi, Dave?"
"Yeah."
"Hi, I'll be doing your massage today."
"You're A.?"
"Yep."
"Oh."
What the fuck? Sorry to disappoint you buddy. I don't know what the fuck you were expecting.
But soon it became clear as I walked him back to my room.
"So, what are we working on today?"
"Uh, I just want to make sure you are well versed in the body."
"Uh, ok? I've been doing this for 5 years and specialize in deep tissue and sports injury, is there a problem?"
And this is what this guy said.
"Well, I can tell you don't work-out, so I just want to make sure you know what you're doing."
Well, judging by your face, I can tell you don't get laid much but I promise not to hold it against you.
"I see. So what are we working on?"
"I was in an accident and have a terrible case of whiplash."
I know just the thing I can do for you.
"Start face up."
I spent the first 20 minutes listening to this guy ramble on about how he works out extensively-2x a day, 6 days a week to be exact. I tried not to choke Dave as I rubbed his neck and listened to him ramble on about muscles he couldn't pronounce, insertions he mistook for origins and fat girls who flirted with him profusely. I might also mention that Dave can not get a lady to date him more than a couple of times. Seems it's his, uh..."Career" that women do not understand.
Really? My client tells me that you told her in confidence that your last girlfriend called you small below that well toned waist of yours.
Of course I left this part out. I stayed professional in my words as I worked on him- while he continued to insult me in subtle little ways.
"I have a lot of clients who come in that are your size" and "I knew you'd be strong because you are really, uh..tall."
Oh, Dave. He was so enjoyable. I learned a lot about him.
He has never read an entire book before. -Reading is "boring." maybe the words are too big.
Kanye West should be the next president! He's really smart.-I'm not even going to touch this one.
He had no idea who Condoleezza Rice was.
He had never heard the word incoherent before. -I had to explain it to him.
And he had never been anywhere outside California or Orange County for that matter.
But most importantly in all this, he didn't have a clue that I was trying to pound a bruise in the shape of an "A" under his right shoulder blade.
I purposely hurt this guy. I purposely imposed pain on him that may be deemed medically unnecessary but morally necessary in my book.
Why? Because he deserved it.
He was an idiot, but fuck him. I knew in the back of my mind this asshole was going to make me look twice at my body every time I looked in a mirror. I knew that this piece of garbage hated anyone who had more than 6% body fat. And I knew that he would be sore the next day and the next day after that and would have to think about me as he stretched and winced before his next work-out.

Later that week on an early morning, I found myself standing in my underwear in front of the mirror critiquing all my softness and imperfections. I looked at my profile from the left, then the right. I ran my hands over my hips and ass that tend fit nicely in a pair of 14/16 jeans. (Ironically I have just spent the last 6 weeks losing twentysomething pounds and half the ass I use to carry around.) I held my belly and pushed it in as far as I could, then quickly let it drop and settle. And you know what? I almost felt ugly. I almost rushed to my knees and stuck my fingers down my throat to expel my rice crispies and low fat milk. I almost started to cry. I almost started to shake. But I didn't.
I put on my favorite pair of perfect size 16 jeans a soft cable knit sweater and headed out for my day. And in my car I dusted myself off with these thoughts:

I love my curves, my slopes my hips- even my dimply belly. I'm not going to bullshit myself or anyone else and say I never wish my thighs didn't touch or my stomach wasn't squishy, but I can live with it. I may not be perfect to one, but to another I am exquisite or beautiful. I don't spend all day in a gym- or even one day out of the month for that matter, but who cares? I am strong enough in body, mind and heart to hurt you, heal you, love you, or out smart you. I have read many many books and can quote Marquez, Hemingway, Morrison, and tons of others. I know who Condoleezza Rice is and Kanye West should stick to producing music and stay the fuck out of politics. And fuck that guy. If having only 6% body fat and the brain the size of a pea is going to attract assholes like him who offer nothing but their petty insignificant opinion- I don't want any part of it.

I guess I've known better all along.
I just needed to remind myself.