The "You Can’t Make This Shit Up" Edition: A Day in the Life
I started my morning with my usual routine: peptides, collagen, and my weekly NAD injection. It’s the ritual that keeps me going. My clients have been noticing, too—they keep asking if I’ve treated myself to new ink lately because my tattoos are looking so vibrant and refreshed. I’d love to tell them "yes," but the truth is, I can't afford new tattoos. My skin and my ink just happen to be reaping the benefits of the work I put into my health.
Here’s the reality they don’t see: The tattoos might look great, but I’m currently driving to work in a car with zero heat. It finally quit on me, and here in Minnesota, that’s not a minor inconvenience—it’s a survival test. I can't afford to fix it right now, so I’m just layering up and white-knuckling the commute while the cold air turns my lungs to ice.
And the cherry on top? My right eye is a disaster zone. My dog, apparently insulted by my focus on work last night, decided the computer desk was a trampoline. One flying leap, one scratched cornea, and a popped-out contact lens later, I’m sitting here "booked solid" for the day, squinting through a red, throbbing eye while I try to pretend I’m a functioning human. It’s not pretty. It’s not curated.
The chaos hit immediately. My 9:30 AM massage client showed up at 9:00 AM sharp. I was mid-coffee, hands full, and completely unable to answer the door or the phone to give them access. I rushed to the office as fast as I could, but by the time I arrived, they’d already realized they were early and had moved on. The pit in my stomach was instant. Here’s the thing people don’t see when they look at my 18-year career: they don’t see the panic I feel every time a client is at the door. That urgency isn't just anxiety—it’s the weight of responsibility. You guys aren't just names on a schedule; you’re the reason there’s food in the pantry and a roof over my kid’s head. When I’m sitting there, trying to look professional while my eye is bloodshot and my body is still thawing out, I’m doing it because I genuinely value every single one of you. That’s not a pitch. That’s just the raw, unvarnished truth of how I show up.
Thankfully, my 9:30 AM client came back, and the session went smoothly. Then, at 11:30 AM, I saw a client I’ve been working with for eight years now. That was the highlight of the day—we did the head spa treatment. This service is special because I get to utilize every one of my degrees and certifications in a single session, and honestly? I get to make a mess. Who doesn't love making a mess? It’s sensory, it’s tactile, and it’s the exact place I belong. After that, I powered through two more massage clients to finish out the day.
But I thought I’d made it. I’d kept my head above water—literally and figuratively. Then, as I’m closing up, the universe decides to show its hand.
First, the massage oil. It had leaked, coating everything in that slick, stubborn residue that takes an hour to sanitize. Okay, fine. I can deal with that. I’m cleaning, I’m packing up, and then—the pièce de résistance—my water bottle decides to stage a coup. It pops open inside my purse, drenching my iPad and everything else I own.
I pull it out, "secure" it, and set it on the table to deal with the purse mess. I turn around, and the rest of the bottle has finished its job, turning my massage table into a swimming pool.
I just stood there. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just started dying laughing. You literally cannot make this shit up. After 18 years in this industry, the day doesn't end with a grand speech—it ends with me mopping up a lake of water off my massage table while my eye still throbs from the dog’s attack.
The mess is cleaned up, the door is locked, and my eye is still throbbing—but I’m done. My only remaining goal for this absolute train wreck of a day? Butter chicken from Spice Village.
I’m currently watching the clock, waiting for that 5:30 PM mark like it’s the most important deadline of my life. No more peptides, no more sanitizing, no more fixing leaks. Just me, some warm food, and a quiet house. Some days you win, some days you survive, and some days you just show up and let the chaos happen.
Today? I’m calling it a draw. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a takeout box.
