The world of the traveler contains various aspects such as thrills, discomfort and much much more. But based upon my empirical evidence, I would say it contains more thrills than discomforts. And the discomforts that do exists are a pleasant form of misery which I would also classify as a thrill.
Recently, I engaged in a 12 day journey to southern South America. You guessed it, you clever literate being with legs, I was in Argentina and Uruguay. Two up and coming travel destinations for any cosmopolitan metrosexual or young urban profession (not that I am either one of those).
However, upon arrival back onto American soil, I noticed something rather alarming regarding my personal well-being. I had back pain. In fact, I had been having back for two weeks. This could have been due to excitement, ice cream consumption, copious mate drinking or some other mysterious component. After 12 days of thrills, I finally experienced discomfort as a result of travel
I had a good think and analyzed my previous two weeks; I deduced that the cause of this back pain was the bag I carried on my pilgrimage. But, any traveler (happy or unhappy) must carry something that contains necessities needed for traveling (toothpaste, bug spray, band aids, peptobismal and cute high heels). I chose to employ my hideous pink-green-purple-white bag with sequins that I got at the goodwill for $0.63, which explains why I could afford to take a vacation, as I do my utmost not to spend too much on things I don't really need (such as gnomes and Russian dolls).
Anyways, I carried this bag around for 12 days and put things in it such as doodads, my camera, some shoes, my wallet, my jacket and anything else I felt needed to be contained within this portal. Eventually my shoulders and back began to complain via their preferred method of communication: pain. I ignored it thinking it would go away in a few days like it normally does. But after experiencing the post-vacation blues for a week, the back pain was still there. At this point, I knew I had to do something extreme. Drastic times call for drastic measures. So, I did something I have only done one other time in my life--I got a massage.
I'm a working class girl complete with a cheap bag that causes back pain. I'm not part of the bourgeoisie class that enjoys earl gray tea, cured ham, jams and crumpets on any given Tuesday at 3:00. No, not I.
Massages are outside of my reality. I know they exist and I know that some people go get massages. But, not people like me.
So, with excitement and anticipation, I prepared myself to enter into the world of "people-who-get-massages," (like landowners and capitalists).
I am happy to report that I got a discount on the massage (as I was obviously a first time massage-receiver) and that the experience was a more than pleasant one.
As I was enjoying the massage, on a heated massage table, I pondered as to who composes relaxing massage music complete with waterfalls in the background and flute music.
Regarding massages I have this to say: a massage is something to be valued, cherished, and appreciated. Because I never ever get them, I have a deep and important appreciation for the art of being kneaded and rubbed by human hands, elbows and arms.
So, to all of my working class constituents, I do recommend you engage in the bourgeois act of massage-receiving. It is a great piece of happiness.