In a previous post, I mentioned that at the end of June I had a fall while doing yard work that caused me so much pain that I kept going to doctors and physical therapy for two months trying to figure out what was wrong. I was diagnosed with a pulled muscle, pinched nerve, whiplash and/or cubital tunnel syndrome. Luckily the pain is now manageable and I am daily thankful that I am able to once again sleep and go to the gym. I also never have to listen to anyone complain about their aches and pains from gardening ever again. “Oh my knees are sore from weeding!” or “Oh my back from raking!” Bitch please, when you’ve given yourself whiplash while doing chores, then we’ll talk. At the time I was in the most pain, I shelled out some cash for a Groupon for a pain management massage, and the soonest evening appointment I could get was yesterday.
I treated the massage like a date, but one where I’m going to end up naked at the end, without dinner first. Who does that? I contemplated shaving my chest but then I’d look like the Pillsbury Doughboy with razor burn. So instead I just did some creative man-scaping, went to the gym a few times last week and Monday, bought some new Kenneth Cole underwear, took a shower, and attempted to look cute. To be honest, I was a little nervous because it’s been a while since I’ve been felt up by a guy who isn’t my husband, not counting Mohegan Sun Arena’s security guards when I go to concerts and lacrosse games. Why people complain about being frisked is beyond me, when I get in line I shop for the hottest security guy as if they’re a vegan doughnut and hope he’s thorough. Hell, I’d even left the greeters at Walmart have a grope if they wanted, especially if it came with a sticker.
What do I imagine a massage to be? I’m picturing a medical office with a receptionist and a few rooms with tables in them as new age music plays and incense burns in a ceramic Buddhas. My masseuse will be a big blond Swede named Hans with even bigger…hands, yeah that’s it, hands. However I don’t want him too attractive or good at what he does, otherwise he’ll only work on my back because I’ll be afraid to roll over and have something come up.
The reality was something I wasn’t quite ready for. The office building had lots of units and the directory was marked “IT” for the massage office’s suite and when I found the door itself it was locked. It dawned on me that nobody knew where I was, so I texted my partner the address so he’d have a place to start looking for my body. I called the “masseuse” to say I arrived but my call went right to voice mail. I waited a few minutes since I was early. When the door swung open I jumped when I was greeted by “Hans” who looked like Charles Manson if Charles went to Woodstock instead of on a killing spree. He walked me through what looked like a deserted dental office. The room he brought me into was small with just a table, some new age decorations, and a mini-fridge looking device in the corner. He asked what was bothering me, told me what he suggested he do to make me feel better, said he’d only be working my upper body so I only needed to take off my shirt, and left me alone to get “comfortable”. I guess shaving my taint was wishful thinking. I heard birds chirping when I was locked out of the office and they were the same ones I heard now on the noise machine. so I was able to relax knowing that someone in the hall could hear me scream.
I was laying on my back on the table when he knocked and entered. He shut off the lights and I shut my eyes because I didn’t want to see how I was going to die. The first thing I heard was his hands rubbing together and a smell of expired coconut oil. Then his hands were on my chest. Not exactly where I expected it to start but I went with it as he rubbed my neck, shoulders, and arms. He was rubbing so hard on my chest with such little massage oil (I guess that discount oil needed to last until 2040) that I could hear the hair on my chest being pulled. Sure my nipples aren’t used for anything but I didn’t want them erased off my body forever. As long as he kept his hands on me and I knew where they were, I was relaxed. It was when he removed both hands that I feared what was next. Please not my nipples again.
When my hour was almost up, he had me flip over to work on my back which was my favorite part but then it was time to go. He left the room so I could get dressed, I once again walked through the still empty and dark office, slipped him a tip (not THE tip, A tip), and I was free. Never did I think I’d be so happy to be walking alone in a deserted office park at night. That was my happy ending. My Groupon is for three sessions, so I still have two more to go. Will I press my luck and go back again? Is my cheapness stronger than my will to live? That is the question.
