I tend to carry my tension in my neck and shoulders, so that flesh around there that should be smooth and supple actually bears more in common with the Italian marble in my front foyer.
My life lately, though not miserable and tension-filled per se, is busier than usual, what with old job and new overlapping each other at awkward moments. Sleep has turned into a precious commodity, and sleeping in has turned into a distant memory. Then, the ever-looming giant retail and postal deadline that is Christmas has me in it's frenzied clutches. And you know, there is the everyday quota of worries about my shoes, my arse, my hair, my ovaries, my Singleton status and the ever-present Mommy-Guilt that accompanies it.
Thus, the tension? Growing. Multiplying. Spreading out and down my spine, up and over my shoulders, it's marble veins starting to form roots and knots around my collarbone. I am turning into one solid and unattractive mass of lumpy, toughened flesh. What's worse, I'm afraid that if it spreads any lower down my front, the stress will reach into the breastal area, making the Girls much firmer than they ever wanted to be. Everything will be pulled taut, and I will be pointing so far north, the word "perky" will have a whole new meaning. On a cold day, the risk of something snapping off and breaking could become a very reasonable fear.
I just thought I'd put that out there. It's a worry that I really don't want bottled up, because the physical ramifications of adding to my stress levels are starting to form a wall between me and my own sanity.
Happy Thursday, my lovelies. Indulge in a massage. Book some shiatsu. Eat some cake. Unleash your silly worries. There! There’s an idea! Unleash your silly worries on me! Let me have ‘em. Let’s see what we can rack up in the Silly Worry Hall of Fame. Are you too afraid that your breasts will turn into hardened balls of marble due to stress? Tell me all about it! Does the fear of hangy nose bits always have you obsessively rubbing at your nostrils, so that you look like you’ve got a nasty little coke habit? Are you strangely discomfited by wicker deer? Guest book’s on the left… you know what to do.
Ok, really now. Happy Thursday, poppets.
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