Remember That One Time . . . Massage

Arin and I were IMing today, as usual, and one topic of conversation triggered a memory:

The first and only time I have ever had a professional massage.

About 3 years ago I was working for an attorney who had a secret indulgence of getting professional massages. Since this indulgence did not involve sports of any kind it was not held with the highest regard among the other men in the office, hence the need to keep it secret. I was the only one he told, which turns out was a big mistake on his part because, as we all know, I am horrible at keeping secrets, especially ones that I find mildly amusing. One day this attorney told me he would like to send me to his masseuse to get a massage. A reward for being the good little secretary that I am. :) I was a little hesitant at first but decided that everyone should get a professional massage at least once in their life, and why not right now, since it was a gift and all.

I walked into the building with expectations of a beautiful spa. Instead I was greeted with damp air in a dark office building and the smell of mold. The masseuse came out of his office and showed me into the massage room, which was even darker than the last and was reeking with horrible incense. The masseuse was a rather large man with red hair and slightly on the anti-attractive side. He turned on some "soothing" music and asked me to undress according to my level of comfort, get under the sheet and he would be right back in. As he left the room I was thinking to myself Level of comfort? What level of comfort? I'm already uncomfortable! Taking my clothes off would just make this even more awkward! But I did it anyway because that's what they do in the movies, right? I left my underwear on though, I figured there was no need to take off my underwear since that portion of me would always be covered by the sheet. So, face down under the sheet I went. A few seconds later the large, red-headed masseuse came in. He described that this was a 1 hour deep tissue massage and that if at any time I felt pain I was to let him know. Pain? The Hell! Are you serious?!! I thought all massages where supposed to feel good, like butterflies dancing on your skin. But I agreed and he started right away. Can you guess where he started? The Buttocks! Well, hello there! How do you do? Nice to meet ya, buddy! I was so completely, 100% uncomfortable that I clenched my butt muscles as hard as I could and I never relaxed after that. Thank goodness for the boyshorts underwear I was wearing that day. Seriously, thank freakin goodness! He moved on to do my legs and feet then my back, that's when he brought the pain. Oh my goodness, deep tissue massages hurt like an MFer (If I had any guts I'd say the real words because that is the only true way to describe it, but this is a family site folks, come on!) I told him about 30 times that it was too hard, way too hard Sir. But he kept going and I gave up on telling him and gave in to the tears streaming down my face. At last, it was over! Or so I thought . . . he then told me to flip over so he could massage my stomach. My stomach? The Hell! Who in the world would get their stomach massaged? But I did it anyway. Then the comment to make all other awkward comments that he had said thus far just go right out the window. "Wow, you have nice ab muscles. Do you work out a lot?" Excuse me! Did this rather large red-headed masseuse with a wife and three kids (I know because he showed me the picture on the way into the room) actually just say that to me? Ahhhh get me out of here! . . . was what I was thinking but of course didn't say because I'm such a pansy. No, no - instead I just gave an annoyed laugh and prayed that this awful massage would end in the next 10 seconds, please, oh please, oh please! And it did. Whew! :)

And that, children, is why you should never go to a strange, smelly office building to get a massage. The end.

My boss asked me a few days later if I would like to become a regular patient and gave me the masseuses card. I smiled, took it and as soon as I got back to my desk I threw it in the garbage. I know what you're thinking . . . I should have spit on it and torn it up into a million little pieces, right? Patient? Hmph! Patient of what, pain?!

Well anyway - it's been 3 years and I think I'm ready to try this massage thing again. This time I have some rules though: a) Arin must go with me; b) I will only go to a place with the word Spa somewhere in the name; and c) I will be ordering the "non-painful, feels like butterflies dancing on my skin, performed by a nice lady masseuse" massage.