Thursday, June 18, 2009

The Massage.

I went to Happy Hour with my friend last night. Here's a sentence I've never heard: "I was so stressed out in that massage room. It ruined my day."

A massage ruined her day. Not traffic, not shitty colleagues. A massage. At the Ritz.

She gets all fucked up with what I call "ticker tape" thoughts: should she leave her underwear on, what if they get too close to her vagina during the thigh part, why do they "mess" with her hands during a body massage, she forgot to shave her legs, what if she farts...

All of these things have happened to people, so it's all good. One masseuse was doing a yoga-type move with my leg once, when the tiniest fart eeked out. We were both horrified, but our looks conveyed an agreement to pretend it never happened.

Back to my friend.

The undressing part proved to be a challenge. At least she was undressed this time. For her last massage, she wore a swimsuit, so this was progress.

The story continued with more anxiety. "The massage lady told me to 'get comfortable' and left the room. What the fuck does that mean? What exactly is required with that statement? And enough with that frou-frou lemon water. All I wanted was a Diet Coke, but noooo they're all healthy and shit."

The new mom sitting behind my friend at the restaurant could have used ten massages. Instead, she was held hostage listening to the only woman in the world who hates them. The look in her eye resembled a dog smelling a steak. If she leaned in close enough, she might get a whiff of eucalyptus.

The massage was 90 minutes, which is a dream to me. A nightmare for her. "Who the hell needs to be rubbed for an hour and a half?"

Uh, me? I'd like to be rubbed for four hours, if possible.

I'm happy to report the massage was completed in a fart-free room without accidental vagina-touching. Did my friend leave the room relaxed? Hell no.

I asked that next time she gets "stuck" with a massage to give me a call. I will be more than happy to help her out.

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