Santa was very good to me this year and even left me a spa gift certificate in my stocking which I fully intend to use to go get a massage today. (High fives, you North Pole stud, you!) And every time I get a massage, I hope and pray with all my might that it doesn’t end up to be like the one I had a few years ago with the world’s most inappropriately awkward masseuse.
When I go for a massage, I’m looking for nothing more than an opportunity to zone out and relax. With kids and the every day pain in the ass stress of life in general constantly bitching and yapping away in my ears every damn second of the day, I get very few chances to just chill the hell out. I am most certainly not interested in dropping a hundred or more dollars to make small talk and chit chat with some douche bag idiot about the weather or the price of tea in China all while I’m laying buck naked on a table in a dark room. If I wanted that, I’d just strip down, turn the lights out, and lay on my dining room table while my twins and the dog run circles around me.
So, a few years back when we took the kids up north to a resort for the weekend, my husband very nicely scheduled an hour-long massage session for me. When I arrived to the spa, I was asked if I minded having a male masseuse. I said I didn’t care, because gender makes no difference to me — it’s all about the hands anyway, right? I was told by a ridiculously smiley masseuse to disrobe and lie down on the table in the therapy room. I did as told and settled onto the table for what I hoped would be a relaxing sixty minutes of pure bliss.
However, when douche boy came back in the room jabbering a mile a minute, I knew that this session would be anything BUT peaceful. Homeboy talked and talked and talked and talked and talked and talked and talked throughout the entire hour about everything under the damn moon. I wanted so badly to scream, “SHUT YOUR FREAKING WORD HOLE, MAN!” I tried so hard to just keep my eyes closed and tune him out, but it was no use. I was doomed to suffer the mental torture and anguish of the Motor Mouth Masseuse. Things started to get a little weird when I could actually feel his breath on my legs. I had a little talk with God and told him to please let this just be my imagination, but it seemed as if he was REALLY REALLY close to my skin.
Ewww doesn’t even begin to describe how uncomfortable I was starting to feel. I mean, weren’t there supposed to be some sort of physical boundaries or something? When he told me that he was finished and I opened my eyes, the dude’s face was no more than a few inches away from mine as he stood there staring at me and smiling ear to ear. This guy had clearly been born with a stupid stick in his mouth. I thought about opening up my can of whoop ass on him, but then my girly goods would be even more exposed. He then had the uber balls to say to me with that psycho-killer grin on his face, “It’s been a REAL pleasure working on you Mrs. Nucking Futs. I mean a REAL pleasure. I mean I REALLY loved working on you. REALLY. A LOT.” I tried with all my might not to think about just what he’d been doing while I had my eyes closed that whole time, and I couldn’t scramble to get my clothes on fast enough when he finally left the room. I felt dirty and violated and wanted to just get the hell outta dodge.
So, as you can probably imagine, I cross my fingers each time I get a massage now that I don’t end up with a creepy repeat of that particular incident. With the exception of the female masseuse who tried to give me a boob massage one time, I’ve been pretty lucky ever since. Here’s hoping today is an uneventful, grope-free experience that leaves me feeling refreshed rather than in need of counseling.