Massage

Every year for my birthday the hubby gets me a spa gift certificate and I LOVE IT!  It might take me 6 months to actually use, but I still know it's there, sitting like a special secret, just waiting for my desperation for alone time to reach def com five. 

Before we left for Florida I used the mani/pedi portion of my gift AND scheduled my massage for today.  Lying there I started to think about how odd professional massages are.  You are lying NAKED (or near naked) on a table while someone rubs oil onto your body.  I mean you are half way from an encounter with a hooker (if the masseuse was naked you'd only have 1/4 left to go).

I've had some awesome massages (today included) and some sketchy massages and, as tempted as I was, I have never been to any of those places advertised on billboards along I75 (but if you know someone who has PLEASE let me know)...you know those places that advertise parking for truckers and private rooms (I've never had a massage that wasn't in a private room so not sure why THAT is a big draw).  Perhaps my next drive down south I'll make a little pit stop to see what's going on up in there.

When I lived in Cincy I went with  my former mother in law for massages.  All we knew is that one of us had a female and one of us had a male.  Being an older, proper woman she did not want the male and as I watched the flamboyantly gay male walk through the room to get his next client I volunteered for the male, assuming that it would be him. 

I heard my name called and looked up expecting to see my oh so gay masseuse.  Um, not so much.  He was hot with a capital H.  Like the kind of hot that if he offered you a happy ending you would've said yes.  And all I could think about was I should've shaved, I should've showered, I shouldn't have worn these granny panties...FOR THE ENTIRE MASSAGE.  Needless to say I did not get a happy ending.  Sigh.

Another time my friend Mary, who had never had a massage, booked us to get massages and facials.  She got her massage while I got my facial and then we switched.  Well, the masseuse was a man and I spent the entire massage wondering if my nipples were showing because he had covered them with a washcloth so that he could massage my stomach (what is that!) and then waiting to be molested.  Let's just say that Chester the Molester did NOT make me feel relaxed.  He was close enough that one slip of the finger and let's just say the police may have been involved.

Luckily I've gained enough weight that massaging my stomach is no longer even offered.  I'm glad because that shit is weird.

And my fave of all times is getting a massage back home, totally naked, the female masseuse holds the sheet up so I can roll over and as my naked self is rolling over she says, "Did you go to Venice High School?"  Um, yes.  Not sure why seeing me naked made you recognize me seeing as you went to the alternative school AND weren't even in my graduating class, but were a year younger.  I guess when you are this fabulous...(the other options were too horrifying to contemplate).

I still love me a massage though.  

Now excuse me while I finish my wine and pistachios.