There appeared to be nothing soothing or relaxing about the massage treatment. My buttnaked husband was seated on a cold slab of marble, his arms being furiously scrubbed down by his masseuse, a short, muscular, tattooed Georgian man donning swim trunks and wielding an exfoliation sponge.
Strung between two pear trees, the shaded rope hammock beckoned me. My legs were cramping--the feeling brought me back almost 20 years to high school football two-a-day practices, when seemingly endless bear crawls, up downs, and sprints dehydrated the heck out of us aspiring gridiron heroes. I’d been hauling forty to sixty pound containers of [...]