Back before I had wrinkles I was searching for what to do with my life.
Lots of things sounded interesting
rodeo clown, abstract splatter paint artist, hang gliding instructor, professional shopper.
Ultimately my wicked strong hands helped me decide that massage would be a good field.
I really enjoyed massage school.
And then I figured out that working in a clinic would mean I spent a lot of time massaging people that I really didn't want to massage and I went into dental human resources instead.
The world has continued to function without my kneading the sore muscles of the populace day in and day out, but Hero Husband has become spoiled.
Most evenings end with a conversation that begins something like this.
"Hey Mamma, How was your day? I had such a long shift. Did I tell you how many calls we made last night? Oh man my back is sore..."
At which point I offer to give him a massage.
Usually in exchange for the remote.
Sometimes I up the ante.
"Hero Husband, What would you do for the promise of a
massage every night for the next 6 months?"
And then he agrees to buy old houses
with orange and brown cabinets, paneling and trim,
long dark scary hallways,
oddly place balusters,
Snow White's evil stepmother's magic mirror,
and half walls in strange places.
Because the promise of a massage every day might just make remodeling this house worth it.
And so the journey begins.