Mr. METY Owes Me a Massage

Hold up. How did I forget to post this earlier? (Shame?) I think I also forgot to mention that during our last weeks in Chennai, he took it upon himself to wear a dhoti (sort of like a sarong for men) one day and a lunghi (a short sarong for men) on another. Yeah, he is a madman.

So I bought a cheap messenger-style bag in tapestry-like fabric adorned with a few mirrors at a Kashmiri shop in Spencer Plaza and Mr. METY complimented me on it as the program was coming to an end. It wasn't the sort of thing I thought I'd use in the States, and I was feeling a guilt hangover for spending so much time internally snickering at him, so I said, "Okay, let's trade." But Mr. METY, all non-attachment, said he didn't have anything to trade...unless I wanted a massage. Which is not quite as bowmpchickabowow as it sounds, since he's a trained massage therapist, and a good chunk of the KYM kids are bodyworkers, so between classes you tend to find some healing happening.

Long story short, the plans to meet up for said massage got all confused, so he has my bag and I have nothing. Well, except for an email from him apologizing, signed "Affectionately." Bowmpchicka.