I staggered back home late this afternoon after a very intense first weekend in massage therapy class, loaded with cotton sheets, pillows, oils and text books. My brain, over the last two days, has been stuffed with so much new information - muscles, joints, bones, skin cells, medical terms, techniques - I fear it might implode. It totally could!
But I knew, as I stepped back into the warmth of my home and to the welcoming shouts of "Mama! You been school?" that I'd made the right decision to do this. Plus, I bloody loved it.
I had a good feeling about it from the moment I entered class on Saturday morning. The instructor was great. My classmates were nice. Even the skeleton was friendly, with his ever-toothy grin.
Admittedly, I was scared and nervous about doing this. I didn't know for sure if me and massage would get along. Or if I'd open a textbook and run screaming down the hallway at the sight of a fleshy muscle or a complex medical term.
But really, the only frightening thing about this weekend was when I drove the wrong way down a steep, one-way road leaving university for lunch and met a car coming the other way. The man looked somewhat horrified as we approached each other on the snowy hill. I tried to gesture my apology but I may just have looked like a mad woman waving and driving the wrong way. And then I attempted a three-point turn to get back up the hill the correct way. Ahem.
It was all the snow's fault I tell you. Damn snow.
I've three weeks until my next class, and piles of homework to get through. So, if you don't hear from me, you know why.