Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Rub down

Lucy was sweet enough to schedule massages for us as my graduation present.

(Before you ask, no, we did not do a couples massage. Although we considered it for a millisecond.)

Lucy scheduled the massages at an overpriced salon near where we grew up. Oh, how thrilled we were. Lucy (who is also in graduate school) and I spent the entire winter semester bitching about how perpetually tense and sore our shoulders were.

And so: massages!

The owner was happy to offer us the "togetherness rooms" as she handed us glasses of wine, but we politely declined. Then, she got all weird on us and asked if we would mind if we had a male therapist (neither of us cared) and continued with an awkward babbling about how "he just has the softest hands. My husband's hands aren't that soft -- my hands aren't that soft. I ask him all the time how he keeps his hands so soft!" Listen, lady. We said yes. Stop with the hard sell about the soft hands.

We were randomly assigned our therapists. I got Señor Soft Hands. A nice enough kid, I guess. I nearly peed myself when he tucked his chin to his chest, looked down at his shoes and asked "isthereanychanceyourepregnant?"


I wish, buddy. Now on with the rubdown.

I have high expectations. He's a dude, soft hands or not, and fully capable of beating the shit out of the knots out of my shoulders.

Except he was all soft hands. All mushy and wimpy and, don't get me wrong - it was great, but it was not spectacular.

I hate that. I hate when massages aren't spectacular. Especially when Lucy spent so much money on it. Especially when I had a dude and a dude should be able to recognize the sad state of my shoulders and get that yuck out.

I've never had a massage therapist not comment on how pathetic they are. Was like Señor Soft Hands completely missed it.

I should have said something. But I was high on the experience.

Even a bad massage is pretty damn good.


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