When you produce worship experiences for a church that sees more than 26,000 people come through its doors for Easter, you're pretty wiped out after the holiday. In fact, after all holidays you're drained and emptied, but usually in the best ways possible. This past weekend was no different. So, when Little texted me to let me know she'd scheduled a massage for me the day after Easter, every sore muscle and pinched nerve rejoiced.
When I got to the masseuse, she instructed me to take off everything except my underwear. But, if you've been following this blog for much time, you'll know that I pretty much never wear underwear. Instead of just letting her know that with the yoga pants I had on, I'd decided to skip the undergarments, I panicked. When she left the room, I stripped down and weighed my options. Like any McGuyver out there, I expertly stepped through the straps of my sports bra and arranged the material just so, so that it looked like I had on a nice pair of briefs from behind. The front was a different story, and the whole situation left me more tense than when I came in.
I'm still pretty sure she had no idea. My mom, on the other hand, after hearing the story, has decided she needs to find another masseuse, stat.