I was enjoying the evening air, checking the massage therapy schedule book to review next week’s bookings when my 90-year-old mother-in-law asked for help.
Help?
I dashed in from the patio and stared. A little tsunami of water was spreading down the hallway into the living room, and all the bedrooms. Oh, and it was pooh water.
Well, that was a week and a day ago. In the past week I somehow managed to get to work and massage my clients, but darn it was tough.
I had six giant hair dryers in my house and had to find a hotel suite that would also take us (and the dog) on a Saturday night. In the midst of the chaos, my spouse slipped and needed a ride to the emergency room with what looked like a broken thumb.
Swea’pea is going to be OK, but the injury meant I am the dishwasher, shower assistant, jar opener and lifter of all boxes and items heavier than 10 pounds.
Well, somehow we managed to find shelter and get the house dried out. And somehow I managed to get to work this past week and be all nurturing. Walking the talk. No migraines. It was pretty interesting.
Massage therapists really don’t have a lot of stress. Once your practice is going and you have some moderate competency there is not a whole lot hand wringing to do. Persistence and consistency pay off. Usually if I feel the need to fret, I have to watch the Lakers.
But my meter was running hot all week with all this multitasking. I used my own massage advice. I did navel breathing as much as I could – car, just before a client, just after. I called a good friend to share and ask favors. I asked a neighbor to feed the cat and keep an eye on my house while we were gone. Child pose and kitty-cat. MSM liniment.
We have managed to survive what appears to be the first week of about a month out of the house. And I need a massage.
The best part of the week: One morning I was running late for work, so my mother-in-law offered to give my spouse a sponge bath. That look of horror was better than any Jamie Lee Curtis scream ever.
