This morning I spoiled myself with an hour-long prenatal massage. For those who are wondering about the physics of that, you lay on your side with a pillow supporting The Belly. Not quite as comfy as our beach trip this summer when I could dig a big hole in the sand and lie on my stomach, but alas, I digress. It was absolute heaven.
My one and only complaint: the masseuse was six months pregnant. No quicker way to induce a guilt trip than have your pregnant brethren rubbing your feet. (Aaron wondered if we had any belly collisions.) In her pre-massage questions, the masseuse asked about any spots that were giving me aches and pains; I started listing off all of my problem areas (which happened to be...well...my entire body) and then sheepishly conceded, "Well, all the places you're probably aching now, too." By the end, I felt like we should switch places and I should take my turn giving her a back rub.
But with all that work on you feet, shouldn't you be in labor by now!?!?
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