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Questionable Oils
Aug. 11th, 2021 10:27 amThat massage was only OK.
The hot stone massage in Sliema was divine, good as sex, or, depending on the circumstances, a very close second. My inner lizard was satisfied; perfectly heated perfectly smooth volcanic rock, perfectly textured oil (jojoba or aloe vera I think) I floated out of the salon with this deep truth flooding my senses; one of these a month could turn me into an angel or at least a reasonable person. Malta's worth going back to just for that.
This local place, not so much; I wanted to avoid almond oil so rapeseed was what they had, thinner and somehow hotter, not so much as a blissful experience as a good ironing. The stones were just shy of making me wince. It was not as well done from the relaxation point of view, but I suspect she's an excellent sports masseur simply because I hurt afterwards and I really hurt today; along a hip joint, along a shoulder blade. I actually can't bend down properly. Must be good for me.
I might be able to take the beating with a slightly better oil. Will have to think about that.
Meanwhile, my perfume samples have turned up from Rook.
The first one I tested was called 'Undergrowth,' described as '...Pulling fresh mint from wet soil. The sun breaking through as the clouds part...'
Well it's mint all right, and a side order of raw garden peas though this latter fades out thankfully fast. There's something like cedar and vetiver. And there's whatever made my husband jump out of his chair asking me why I'm wearing pine cleaner.
Now I'm not faint of nose; I've tried Lutens' Borneo 1834 and once I wore Serge Noire on a summers day, when what you obviously want is a combination of camphor and every single goddamn thing out of a pre-war medicine chest. But for the life of me, I can't subject R to this. I keep thinking it's settling down to something woody and inoffensive, then a blast of this weird astringent whiff hits me. As the day goes by, I smell more and more like every music classroom ever, with its collection of 20 old recorders waiting for some child to abuse them in the mutilation of Frere Jacques.
We travel soon. I am going to run around the house so fast the smell can't catch me.
The hot stone massage in Sliema was divine, good as sex, or, depending on the circumstances, a very close second. My inner lizard was satisfied; perfectly heated perfectly smooth volcanic rock, perfectly textured oil (jojoba or aloe vera I think) I floated out of the salon with this deep truth flooding my senses; one of these a month could turn me into an angel or at least a reasonable person. Malta's worth going back to just for that.
This local place, not so much; I wanted to avoid almond oil so rapeseed was what they had, thinner and somehow hotter, not so much as a blissful experience as a good ironing. The stones were just shy of making me wince. It was not as well done from the relaxation point of view, but I suspect she's an excellent sports masseur simply because I hurt afterwards and I really hurt today; along a hip joint, along a shoulder blade. I actually can't bend down properly. Must be good for me.
I might be able to take the beating with a slightly better oil. Will have to think about that.
Meanwhile, my perfume samples have turned up from Rook.
The first one I tested was called 'Undergrowth,' described as '...Pulling fresh mint from wet soil. The sun breaking through as the clouds part...'
Well it's mint all right, and a side order of raw garden peas though this latter fades out thankfully fast. There's something like cedar and vetiver. And there's whatever made my husband jump out of his chair asking me why I'm wearing pine cleaner.
Now I'm not faint of nose; I've tried Lutens' Borneo 1834 and once I wore Serge Noire on a summers day, when what you obviously want is a combination of camphor and every single goddamn thing out of a pre-war medicine chest. But for the life of me, I can't subject R to this. I keep thinking it's settling down to something woody and inoffensive, then a blast of this weird astringent whiff hits me. As the day goes by, I smell more and more like every music classroom ever, with its collection of 20 old recorders waiting for some child to abuse them in the mutilation of Frere Jacques.
We travel soon. I am going to run around the house so fast the smell can't catch me.
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