I know... I know...

“You're kind of a weirdo. Did you know that?” This is Brian, my boyfriend's, catchphrase endearment towards me and my actions. At least, I think it's an endearment. He says it an awful lot. Even when I think I am doing something completely normal like singing selected show tunes from the movie adaption of the musical The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas while I do the dishes. Mundane, right? But, yes, I suppose to answer Brian's question, I know I am a weirdo.

There's no other way to live, really. At least not for me. Normalcy is a little drab for my taste. Why eat boring, old paste when there's delicious Play Doh to be had? Bad analogy. Can't seem to think of a better one though...

I remember sitting on the bathroom counter in my parents' house when I was a tweenager. I'd sit in there for hours as one brother or another banged on the locked door and complained that there were other people in this family. Set aside the fact that I wasn't supposed to sit on the counter or lock the door. From the time I was eleven to the time I was roughly fifteen, sitting on the bathroom counter, locked in the loo, was my sanctuary. I'd preen, make funny faces at myself in the mirror, pick at my newly-developed acne (only making it worse, but somehow that didn't occur to me)... However, mostly, I contemplated things. I'd daydream. I'd figure out important conscious elements of my personality.

No joke, I remember asking myself in the mirror during one of these self-therapy sessions if I would rather be perfect like Jesus or normal like Jenny from Mrs. Busch's English class. I thought about it for a long time. I decided that while I should aspire to be as good of a person as possible, being perfect like Jesus probably wasn't really a very attainable goal, not to mention a dangerous dabbling in the blasphemous. Then I preened a little before I came upon the conclusion that, yes, Jenny from English was pretty normal. Normal right down to her fashionable Adidas flip flops and form-fitting melon-colored tee shirt that matched the color of her ponytail Scrunchi. But Jenny with all of her glorious normalcy was also average. So average that if it weren't for my crush having a crush on Jenny instead of on me, I probably wouldn't remember anything about her. Well, maybe I'd remember the Scrunchi that perfectly matched her melon-colored tee shirt... But that's probably the most atypical thing about her.

(On a separate note, should I still be bitter about unrequited, ten-year-old puppy love when I know my crush turned out to be a doped-up career dog toy salesman with a foul odor about him and an intentionally-uggo punk rock haircut? Perhaps not... I will always have a soft spot in my heart for him, albeit now only friendship. He and I went different directions when we got older, but I think we'll always have the mutual adoration because we had one another's backs in the killing field known as the seventh grade.)

I decided that average wasn't the way to go. Average equated in my mind with concepts like being invisible. Mild-mannered. Demur. While I do strive to be kind and polite, I didn't want to be those other things. I wanted to be Pat Benetar and Weird Al and Gilda Radner—and oddly enough (to my father's horror) Rosanne Barr and Fran Drescher. These people contributed to society with wackiness. More so (in my seventh grade opinion) than boring, old historical figures or scientists or politicians. Curing diseases and hashing out civil rights. Puh. Eccentrics were lovable to me. Even today as an official grown-up, I admire them. And although weirdos are weirdos because they generally have a difficult time following suit, I truly think people with these off-the-wall characteristics is why I felt comfortable becoming who I truly am on the inside: kind of a weirdo.

OMG. Herpes.

It has come to my attention that an estimated one in six people in America is living with some form of herpes or another. That boggles my pickled, little brain. Do people not realize just how huge a number that is? Huge. Herpes is a life-long, highly-communicable virus that has a varying degree of physical and social discomfort. We're talking serious here, people—serious like a blister, sister.

I am a massage therapist by day. It is my job to touch people. People's faces, people's butts, people's everything, minus the naughty bits. (I am not one of those massage therapists who touch the naughty bits... I am not a narcissist and I am definitely not anti-prostitution for those who are willing participants, but if somebody expects to get their jingles jangled for roughly a dollar a minute, they'd better go take their fat wad of singles and find a red light special. Ba dump bump ching).

Although, I admit, I have not been at my profession for very long--practicing only two years, in that time I have massaged hundreds, hundreds, of people. And every single one of them has had to fill out a general intake form regarding her or his health. If one in six people supposedly have herpes (you know... that thing that's pretty darn contagious and lasts a lifetime) why then is there all of this denial? I shouldn't disclose what number of clients have actually fessed up to having herpes, but let's just say it's nowhere near one in six.

As a massage therapist, I doubt I am ignorant in saying the only real ways I know of to protect myself from the spread of disease via my clients is to change my sheets between every client (I do), disinfect my work areas (I do), refrain from touching my face while working on someone (I do), rubber gloving when I have any sort of cut or scrape on my hands (I do... Well... Okay I don't. Nobody is going to pay me for a bunch of latex-caused strawberry burns...), and washing my hands Benjamen “Hawk Eye” Pierce-style (I do. I really, really do). Am I alone when I think these precautions leave something to be desired? Massaging people with Purell probably isn't feasible...

I do worry about my own health... I worry about contracting herpes, and being doubly upset because I wasn't even having fun while contracting it. I do not, however, blame the people who omit their conditions on my form. Herpes, as well as many other common ailments, have become such a cultural taboo that it embarrasses people to the point of nondisclosure, ever when their nondisclosure could very well mean spreading the disease. Certainly, I will be upset, fuming, the day I inevitably find out I have contracted something from one of my clients, but I can only curse under my breath and blame society for being a bunch of grossed-out twelve year olds who will sensationalize and obsess over sex, but will not admit to any of the realities of having it.

So, it has become an issue of whether or not I want to continue with my profession. I like my job. I work inside of a fun, laid-back hair salon. The owner happens to be one of my best friends. And although I don't make much money doing what I do (HUGE discrepancy between what I earn and what people think massage therapists typically make...), I get by fine. It's just... I have always looked at massage as something to pay the bills while I try to keep my creative projects in the air. I really would like to travel and write. It takes funds to do such things. I am not a lazy mooch by nature, so I work. But is it worth it to me to contract a life-long disease for the sake of an amount of money that barely pays my bills when I could be doing just about anything else? My answer is changing to no. There was a naive time (last year...) when I felt a little more invincible that I do now. I love my job. But I no longer feel like it's worth taking a blister for. I will definitely miss it when I have the financial ability to leave. I will miss my clients, my coworkers, the salon itself. I just hope I can find my way before I become a victim of nondisclosure.