Masseuse Mania

5 05 2008

After an extended day of toting the papoose around a wedding I noticed that my neck and back were particularly stiff. I actually welcomed the discomfort because it was the first time I have done anything vaguely physical in the last decade that didn’t result in being in traction for 2 months. I felt like a conquering warrior, or at least 5/8ths of a an actual man (an all time high for me) and decided to reward myself with a massage.

I didn’t really have a masseuse on my rolodex so I just found the closest place that didn’t look too foofy. I don’t need sandalwood scented candles or new-age soundscapes of orcas belching in the background. For me, a massage is about relative silence, deep tissue kneading by sinewy forearms and that awkwardly-joking-but-quietly-hopeful-“happy-ending” suggestion. That’s how random chance brought me an encounter with the world’s most obnoxious masseuse:

“Hi, my name is Tinnitus. And you are?” (Ed. Note: Okay, I don’t actually remember her name, but I assure you that is a valid substitution)
“Hi, I’m Ian. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Mmmmm, Ian. A good biblical name, eh?”

She had me over a barrel here. Despite the better efforts of the afterschool Catholic studies courses I endured K – 12, I couldn’t recall a single mention of an “Ian”, especially not one of particular importance. I’m sure Jesus loved all the Ian’s he met, but he was pretty pally with the leper crowd as well. However, people don’t usually bullshit biblical knowledge for casual conversation, so I decided to go along with. Unfortunately I did this in the socially awkward manner of someone responding with a canned reply, not unlike reciprocally wishing that the waitress enjoyed HER dinner as you leave the restaurant.

“Well, that’s how we do.”

How we “do”. Splendid. Not only a non sequitur, it gave the impression that I am studied in such matters. Still, it didn’t worry me. What are the odds that would come back to haunt me while I was isolated in captivity under the sturdy hands of a religious zealot? Pretty good it turns out.

Just as I feared, the small talk starts right up as soon as I nestle my head into the donut pillow. For the scratch I’m coughing up I’m more than entitled to tell her to clam it, but my sweet nature gets the best of me. Plus there’s no way I’m getting a handy if I blow her off. It’s not even really a conversation. She monologues about her first husband (deceased), her second husband (currently praying for death) and how it all relates to The Almighty, but provides awkward pauses so I can provide the obligatory “mmhmm” so she knows I’m still with her. Here are a couple of her greatest hits:

“…and Henry, my first husband, ooooh did he ever have the smelliest feet. So I prayed on it and, though I resisted, God kept telling me ‘pedicure…pedicure’. So I gave him one, y’know?”

“…but what I really want to be is a writer. I’ve even written a children’s book! It’s all about a little girl named Eve who always gets into trouble, but her Uncle Godly is always there to offer advice. I’ve already sent a copy to Dreamworks and Disney because I think it would make a great movie.”

At the end of the session, she asked for my personal contact information so we could keep in touch. Normally I would have obliged, but frankly the handjob was sub-par at best.




2 responses

5 05 2008

Touch him, and he will come. Pretty quicikly from what I’ve heard.

12 06 2008

Every time I go to the movies:
Third theater to your right, enjoy your movie.

Me: You too!

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