One of the many side effects of being a long-distance runner is that in my free time, I’m either running, recovering from running, or thinking about running. One thing I’m not doing is cleaning my house. And it needs it. It’s probably not far from being presentable, but I have no drive or desire to make it so. Not dating only makes it easier to maintain the status quo. And my kids are animals. Cleaning up their messes or yelling at them to do it exhausts me.
So, I’d rather blog than vacuum. Sue me.
I did my first double-digit training run since April this morning, and it felt like a marathon. I always forget how much the heat zaps me, and I never carry enough water. Plus, my fitness is just not where it should be. But I covered the miles and got it on the books.
Afterward, I showered quickly and drove to my massage appointment with wet hair. It was heavenly today – he was magnificent. I find it so interesting that something so sensual can not be sexual. I mean, it felt great, but if I was getting turned on at all, it was because of the story playing in my head, not because of the man rubbing me down. It feels so good to feel so good. I’m getting more comfortable with this particular masseuse, so I can relax a little more each time I see him. But this kind of touch is void of feelings and connections and open hearts, and it’s simply therapeutic touch. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
But of course I want the other kind. I crave the Spartacus touch. I want to be held firmly and kissed gently and touched magically. I want to get naked and feel skin on skin. I want passion and soft caresses. I want the strong gladiator to flip my switch and send me to the moon. I want to look deeply into each other’s eyes and connect at a soul level. I want to make him yell out and show me what his face looks like when he goes there.
And I want the house fairy to come and clean my house tonight.
Is that too much to ask?