MY EYES WERE GETTING HEAVY....

I have always been intrigued by hypnosis, though never enough to participate. Mostly because I never wanted to know for sure whether or not I had been abducted by aliens for egg harvest.

But also because I have a deep-seated fear of the hypnotist turning me into a pole dancer then dropping dead with a heart attack before waking me up.

So how could it be that I ended up somewhere in the middle of the ocean on a Princess cruise ship looking like this, bless my heart:


Please allow me to explain.

Last week, my girlfriend and I left our husbands and all our worldly cares (redundant, perhaps?) landlocked at home with a fridge full of cold leftovers while we embarked on a 7-day Concerts at Sea Cruise aboard the Grand Princess.


It was our second day aboard the fantastical ship - meaning we were already well on our way into a food coma - and we had just come from a relaxing spa treatment. [If you’ve never had a beautiful British girl give you a foot massage, hot towel facial and scalp massage, you haven’t truly lived. There's something about a British accent that makes everything better. But I digress...]

After spending many lost minutes wondering aimlessly through building after building, my friend Vicki and I eventually found our way into the sparsely populated Princess Theater.

An energetic Hypnotist bounded onto the stage and immediately began looking for suckers...uh, volunteers. After several minutes, only two brave shipmates had responded. The rest of the audience shifted uncomfortably in our seats and avoided eye contact with the dude onstage.

AND THEN, he went on to explain how he didn’t believe in embarrassing his subjects and that IN FACT, his subjects would leave the stage feeling better than they ever had...that ONE HOUR of hypnosis is equal to EIGHT HOURS OF THE MOST RESTFUL SLEEP EVER.

Suddenly, the chairs on the stage were filled. Imagine my surprise when I realized one of the chairs had been filled with my very own butt. But then again, I would turn tricks for the promise of eight hours of restful sleep.

Before I knew it, a friendly stranger with beady little eyes was convincing me that my own eyes were indeed getting heavy. I quickly fell into that soothing, floaty place you go to right before falling completely asleep. I could still hear the Hypnotist’s lulling voice, but the audience had totally faded from my awareness. I had absolutely no perception of time.

I can recall about 50% of what happened onstage as a fuzzy, abstract memory. Vicki filled in the rest, amid hoots of laughter and complete with photographs. Unbelievably flattering photographs...

“ON THE COUNT OF THREE YOU WILL BE COMPLETELY RELAXED.”

“YOUR PLANE HAS JUST LANDED AFTER A REALLY LONG FLIGHT AND YOU ARE EXHAUSTED. YOU FINALLY GET TO STRETCH...A GREAT BIG RELAXING STRETCH.”

"THE PERSON SITTING NEXT TO YOU IS SOMEONE YOU CARE DEEPLY FOR. GIVE THEM A GREAT BIG HUG TO SHOW THEM JUST HOW MUCH YOU CARE.”


"YOU ARE NOW LOOKING AT THE FUNNIEST THING YOU HAVE EVER SEEN. YOU CAN’T STOP LAUGHING.”(When he asked me what I was looking at, I told him "Velvet Elvis". And that's all I have to say about that.)


“YOU ARE A ROCKSTAR ONSTAGE AT A HUGE ROCK CONCERT. ON THE COUNT OF THREE, YOU WILL BE BEGIN PLAYING YOUR INSTRUMENT.” ************ Eat your heart out, Sheila E. ************


“YOUR CONCERT IS OVER. YOU DID A GREAT JOB, ROCKSTARS. TIME TO GET UP AND TAKE A BOW.”

I would love to report that after only one 45-minute session, my inner rockstar was truly released. I would love to tell you that I was looked upon as a rockstar for the rest of the cruise...total strangers clamoring to get their pictures taken with me...gorgeous men asking me to sign their pecs and whatnot.

But you've seen the pictures, and they pretty much speak for themselves. For the next five days, everywhere I went I had to endure snickers and whispers of “there’s the crazy lady that thought she was a rockstar”.

Hah. If they only knew about my mad tambourine skills. Which I totally would’ve shown them, if I had not left that last little piece of my dignity on the stage.

I made Vicki swear that I wouldn’t go all Britney Spears again if someone yelled out “Bananas” or some other random word cue. She promised me it wouldn’t happen.

I’m not so sure. Since I’ve been home I keep finding myself wearing sunglasses indoors and fighting a strong desire to shave my head and beat the crap out of cars with an umbrella.

I haven't worked up enough nerve to look in the mirror to see whether or not I'm sporting a tramp stamp.