Just mentioning the word “massage table” might give you the idea that I am filthy rich and eating my weight in bonbons. When I’m not on the massage table. And you would be wrong. You would also be wrong if you thought I was at one of those *wink wink* massage places. Just so you know.
I “accidentally” signed up for a monthly massage (reduced rate) at a massage therapy spot nearby. I say “accidentally” because I don’t want to be rude. And the first visit was great. They charge me for a monthly massage, whether I’m dead or alive. I thought I could cancel easily … but the fine print says I must send a handwritten letter in a bottle on the second day after a blue moon. Aggghhhhhhh! I thought it would be a good idea to cash in on my monthly “purchase”; am residing in Stressville and, to quote my dad, currently, “If I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.” I thought a massage would help. I am an idiot. A polite idiot, but idiot nonetheless.
“Jacey” took me to my room where I disrobed and jumped under the covers. He returned, asked me what type of massage therapy I wanted, and I was VERY CLEAR that it would be shoulders, neck, and arms ONLY. And I began to relax as he removed my shoulders from my ears. Ten minutes in, I was r-e-l-a-x-i-n-g.
The next thing I know, “Jacey” moved to my feet. And the conversation in my head went this way for the next 50 minutes:
“I HATE feet. What is he doing? Feet are ugly. Useful. But ugly. How can he confuse feet with shoulders?”
Oh, God. He has a foot fetish. What is he doing? This is weird. Get away from my feet or I will kill you.”
Then he wrapped my feet in hot towels and told me to flip over. I thought maybe now that I was face up, he’d snap out of it. My mistake. He put an eye pillow over my peepers, then proceeded to drape the covers so that my right foot, leg and almost my “privacy” was exposed.
“Excuse me, freak, but that is not a shoulder. What is he doing? Get away from my privacy. I’m supposed to relax. This sucks!”
He returned to foot fetish land, working that right foot for all it’s worth; then regrouping and groping the left one.
“What is the freaking deal with my feet? I am NOT relaxed, I am in a misery. And am too chicken to yell at you, you perv!”
Finally, he covered my feet. Then he came to the head of the table and ruffled my hair, as you would a little boy or a dog. WTH? And then he left.
“God is good. He’s gone. I am free!”
It was the second weirdest, worst massage ever. Second only to the one where the massage therapist had a hang nail and when she was finished, my back looked like a barber pole.
I need to grow some. When my
life luck changes. Hopefully sooner than …