It's our nifty little creation that we (okay, just me) like to play where I massage him for 3 minutes, and he massages me for 30. For my Barnacle Bill back, there's nothing better than getting a rub-a-dub-dub while planking on my comfy mattress. I was especially needing some TLC last night from my ten-mile run, my bloody toes, and---did I mention?---the ginormous food baby I birthed last night. (Samoas you are the father!)
Well lo and behold, last night Grahm did not want to play
our my game.
"Really, babe? I'm tired. Let me go to sleep."
"But it's almost Valentine's Day! Love me! These knots aren't going to unpretzel themselves."
"I do love you, but I also love to sleep..."
"I'll massage you first this time!"
"... I'd rather you just ... didn't."
(A very awkward silence passed between us while the blonde bimbo in me digested what he was saying.)
"What? You ... do ... want ... me ... to rub you? What does that MEAN!"
"Babe... you just aren't the best at..."
"YOU DON'T LIKE MY MASSAGES!"
He cut me deep. Real deep. What a revelation to declare three years later! My little smokey fingers apparently weren't and have never cut his muscles' mustard. Why didn't he tell me that my attempts at rubbin' his aching back were about as pleasant as a getting repeatedly kicked in the crotch biscuits by a tiny shoe?
I was crushed for 3.6 seconds until I realized . . . our massage game just got way more enjoyable for me. ;) (Silver lining, folks.)