This is it

Today is the last time I'll set foot in a spa. That is until I make it big and can afford a $135 hot stone massage and a $75 pedicure. My nails will look like crap for a while and that thought wrecked my sleep. I'm up early and putting on my 100% polyester uniform also for the last time. A person should never wear polyester against their will. Actually upon deeper thought, a person should never wear 100% polyester at all. The slinky way it rubs against my skin. The way it avoids wrinkling even though I ball it up and stuff it in the envelope drawer at work every night before closing only to put it on unwashed the next morning. The passive aggressive little bitch in me actually likes this feature because I somehow feel subversive and alternative by seeing how long I can wear a uniform before washing it. I know this is a rather disgusting and inappropriate {and pointless} thing to do but I like the cognitive disonance of it all. Like in the opening scene of David Lynch's Blue Velvet where the camera shows a normal "beautiful" suburban scene and slowly pans down under the perfect lawn to the slithering wormy substance it's all built on. A perfect analogy for the spa. So I stand behind the counter in my own little personal funkiness to remind me that it's all a sham. There is so much toxic energy and stress behind the thin veneer of polyester and fake smiles that my cheeks (and soul)hurt just thinking about it. That's what really has me running for the exits. I want a life of authenticity. I want a life not veneered over by "niceness" and pretty smells. The stench of an open sewer in some back alley of Phnom Penh isn't my favorite thing either, but walking through it I knew I was alive. Better yet so were the people living in it. Not just existing but living and selling and buying and hustling and bustling and laughing and crying and crapping in the streets. People there hang out with family...and struggle. The cake eaters (thank you for that term 'anonymous islander') here don't really struggle and still feel the need to take a "spa vacation" to get AWAY from their kids. Again I think of the words of the Dalai Lama who notes that income level and happiness are inversely proportionate.
But back to polyester. It's an amazing substance and so unnatural I can feel the sking tumors growing, slowly growing, throughout the day. It also reminds me too much of my first "real" job at Jack In The Box. But instead of coming home smelling like a double cheese bacon jack and french fries, I arrive home to Sheryl smelling of canteloupe/lime infusers or jasmine/burnt sugar candles. Agreed, it is a step up but if I account for inflation I probably made as much or more at 16 years old than I do now. The deep fat fryer is looking better all the time...