Dear Caesar, I'm Sorry My Armpits Were Hairy.

A friend came to my rescue over to my house today and hung out while my kids took naps and then played with them when they woke up.  She gave me some time to myself, which I feel like I haven't had in a long time.  Very last minute, I called the massage studio where I've gone in the past and asked in my most sweetest, persuasive voice if they had any last minute openings.  They did!  Of course it was too fat of a chance to get in with my tried and true therapist, but I was happy nonetheless to just get an appointment.  I have had a gift card sitting in my wallet since last Christmas that I just have not had the time to use, so it was the perfect opportunity.  I booked with a burly man named Caesar whose strong hands worked their magic on my tight muscles (from cooking, running, and carrying chillins).  He had me at hello.  He said, "I am Caesar.  Welcome to my table.  My English no good, but no need to talk here."  I couldn't agree more, Caesar.  It ended up being the best one I've ever had.

I've always felt that massage therapy works wonders for your physical health, but more recently, I'm finding that it's mentally beneficial, too.  It's such a service to give that gift to someone who can't work their kinks out on their own.  If I had the time and money, I think I would enjoy getting certified myself.

During the massage, to my surprise, I started getting emotional.  I've talked with friends before who do massage therapy as a living and they say it's not uncommon.  It's never happened to me until today.  They say something triggers an emotional release, resulting in tears. Not happy tears, but not sad tears.  Just one of those cries that makes you feel better after it's over.  Caesar asked me if I wanted to take a break, but I said no.  So he just kept working and I just cried.  It wasn't awkward at all, actually.  He was very sweet about it.
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What's your guilty pleasure?