Kids Please Don't Give Me a Massage For Father's Day

massageFather’s Day is just a few days away. Barb and I are busy planning our annual family celebration. The guest list is set, though we will be missing our niece and nephew who just this week gave birth to the newest family member, a beautiful girl named after my late sister.  Some other family will be out of town, but not out of our thoughts.

The menu keeps changing, flip-flopping more often than Trump on tariffs or Biden on abortion. To grill or not to grill? So far, it is Alexa that is getting the grilling, as we ask her every twenty minutes what the weather will be like on Sunday. Her latest forecast is “dreary” which can go either way. I am ok stoking the grill in dry-dreary, it is downpour-dreary that I am hoping to avoid. So if it rains, we will go to option #2.

One announcement. After many years of Father’s Day inclusion, I am 86’ing my hand made, homemade margaritas from the potent potables list. Last year, most of the glasses were left half full, and the mixture of booze, citrus and sugar left a gloppy mess where ever the glasses were set down. Beer and wine and ice tea will have to be enough to keep everyone hydrated.

And then there is the matter of gifts. I have already heard 4 commercials for them this morning, but kids, please don’t give me a gift certificate for a massage. Whether it is for one of those chain outfits, or a local salon, I just don’t want it. The truth is, I hate massages.

I hear people talk about how wonderful massages are; how they soothe and rejuvenate, erase aches and pains, bring the brain to some nirvana. I have never reached Valhalla. Be it a couples massage and soak in a lava heated pool in Hawaii, or a two dollar rub down in a storefront in Bangkok, been there, done that, hated it. Laying there half (or totally) naked while a stranger’s hands plunge, poke, and prod just has never sent my endorphins sky-rocketing. To be clear, I am not talking about the Robert Kraft type of “massage,” I mean the legal, G-rated hands where they belong experience. I don’t want to even imagine the other kind…

So kids, give me a gift card to something else.  Give me something cool to wear (not a Patagonia vest. I am not hip enough to wear that.)  Give me a cheap electronic doodad. Give me a hugs, kisses and homemade cards from the grandkids.But ignore all those commercials and no massages, please! My achy, painful body may stay achy and painful, but that’s OK with me.

And to all you other Dads out there–Happy Father’s Day, anyway you like it!

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