The "Discount" Massage Experience

After much deliberation about what to blog and when, I decided I’d start on my flight to Amsterdam last month. After all, leaving for Europe on holiday (first class, no less), offers one a great topic – new people and places, adventure, mystery and in this case, delectable chocolate.

And it was great. I just didn’t write about it.

The challenges of travel – starting with the fact that I barely slept for two nights prior to leaving due to packing and associated preparation (never my strong suit) – proved too great, and my laptop remained untouched except for checking email and the weather. At least I didn’t blow it up like my $130 flat iron. But more on that later.

So what prompts my grand entry into the blogsphere?

In short, the craziness of life… the stupid stuff that happens that’s usually not so great but we manage to laugh or learn something… or have an excuse to go to directly to a bar and say, “I’ll have the strongest margarita you make.”

Today it was the discount massage experience.

Since I’m currently unemployed, I’m trying to be good. I clip the coupons for the places with the poorly worded ads. You know… the ones where pretty much the only English spoken among the massage staff is “OK!” Oh, and they call me “lady” a lot.

As usual, I tell the receptionist a few preferences, since he or she is my only hope for any form of information exchange between me and the therapist.

I entered the front door. The room was vacant except for the receptionist du jour, a teenage boy with a large Band-Aid on his cheek, who was sound asleep. Although the chair he was sitting on was tiny, he was slumped back like it was a Lazy Boy recliner.

Once awake, he sprang to his feet and led me to a small room toward the back. As he went to get the massage therapist, I asked him to communicate three preferences starting with “water not too hot.”

A moment later the therapist, a young, stocky woman in pink scrubs with a high-pitched voice, entered with a steamy bucket you could have made soup in. My expressions of “too hot” drew puzzled looks, but she eventually got the idea.

Trying not to let these events foreshadow what I had hoped would be a very pleasant experience, I leaned back, shut my eyes and tried to empty my mind.

She started by rubbing my temples, which was OK, then quickly proceeded to scratch my head with such vigor that it actually seemed like a technique to remove hair.

From there, she worked the muscles on the sides of my neck. I don’t know about you, but this always makes me nervous. Hello, jugular vein!!!!

Fortunately, that was quick and we were on to the feet.

As she positioned herself and took my left foot in her hand, I felt relieved. The foot portion was most of why I was there. I was looking forward to it. Besides, I’ve had a deep-tissue foot massage before. How bad could it be?

Wow.

What she lacked in finesse, she made up for in brute force compounded by rapid rhythmic precision. In my mind I visualized busy pioneer women scrubbing filthy clothing on river stones. Yeah, kinda like that.

This continued for the remainder of the massage except for a moment when I think she was attempting a few chiropractic adjustments. I seriously kept thinking how easy it would be for her to kill me.

Despite, the occasional “ouch,” I didn’t say anything. It would produce only more confused looks and take away time for the potential of a soothing massage moment. (Hey, maybe she’ll tire out!)

Like getting off a rollercoaster ride that was much more than you bargained for, I gratefully stumbled out into the waiting room when it was over.

The boy was asleep, again, but now on the waiting room sofa and covered by his jacket. I paid the bill and offered a decent tip based on sheer labor but silently vowed not to have her again.

I looked for her nametag so I could avoid her the next time. Of course, she’s the only person I’ve ever seen there without one.

However, I did notice a dragon tattoo on her arm. Guess that says it all.

When I got home I climbed the stairs in the subterranean parking lot of my apartment building and noticed an abandoned boba drink that’s been there in plain sight for at least three days. It’s become a major science project. Maybe it will blow if we have a hot spell. The maintenance around here is pretty bad despite the crew of women in gray uniforms that scrub the barbeque and more or less hang out at the pool all day. Ironically, the building owner is cracking down on the “unauthorized” placement of home décor and other personal items… like putting a tasteful doormat outside your apartment door, hanging a wind chime on your patio or locking your bike on the pole next to your car.

Whatever. C’est la vie.

I need a massage.


END NOTE: Many thanks to fellow blogger Sarah (age 12) who has been blogging on behalf of her dog Miles for some time and offered invaluable support in overcoming the technical challenges of launching this thing. Big shoes to fill in the days to come.