April 4, 2020

Massages. Not a fan. Who knew? Everyone raves about them so I decide to give it a shot. I follow the process of completing the paperwork, graciously accept my tiny cup of water and sit in a tiny, dark waiting room. In a few moments, the drawer of the short straw comes out to greet me. You don’t have a say in who gets to put their hands all over you for the next 50 minutes. Look, I’m an old lady. Many have put their hands on me through the years but usually there’s at least a nice dinner before.

I’m led to a dark little room, told to remove as much clothing as I’d like (my own, not theirs apparently) and to get under the sheet on a table barely wide enough for my expanding frame. Climbing on that thing and pulling up the modesty sheet is a comedy show in itself. I rarely lay on my stomach anymore, as the buoyancy and sheer size of my overworked boobs make laying flat nearly impossible. Breast feeding three children and gravity have not been kind. Thanks for the mammaries.

Then there’s that place to rest your face. It looks like a port-a-potty to me. I manage to fit my face in the opening, cheeks pushed to either side like I’m launched on the Space Shuttle.

In walks my masseuse and it begins. Oh the rubbing! It never stops. Kneading and kneading. All right already. All done! Are you enjoying this, because I’m not. I wish you would stop. I’m more tense now than when I walked in the place. Holding my breath, trying not to fart, using every last bit of control to keep myself from grabbing your hands by the wrists and breaking them like sticks!

When it finally ends I manage to put my clothes back on over my oily body and stumble out of the dark room. I’m met in the hallway with another tiny cup of water and encouraged to offer some sort of compliment or praise to my tormentor. Out to the lobby I meander to enjoy paying for this experience and listening to a sales presentation that rivals a timeshare pitch. All I want to do is get in my car, drive home and take a shower.

Needless to say I won’t be back. I’ll wear my tension with pride, leaving room on the table for more supple suckers.

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