A while ago a couple of friends and I decided to get massages. We were treating a friend who needed a little pampering and thought a massage and dinner would do the trick.

“Don’t be scared by the outside, as it is in a strip mall that doesn’t have much,” said my friend who made the appointments for us.

What she should have said was “Don’t be scared by the outside as it is in an ABANDONED strip mall.” Or maybe even ‘If you choose to look at the website, don’t be scared by the cover image of two sexy lady massagers massaging one smiling man.”

We walk in and are met by a woman inside who quickly asks us to pay upfront and also include the tip. I push down the thought that this particular establishment must have experienced a lot of clients “Massage and Ditch out the Back Door” to make it a rule to pay first.

As she leads us toward the massage rooms, which are basically right off the entrance, she ushers both of my friends into the same room. It is all I can do to not burst out laughing as I would have paid double to hear about how their “couples” massage went, but they quickly clarify that they will be needing separate rooms. Thankfully I am led into a room by myself and asked to undress and lie down with the towel over me.

Now, if you ever have had a massage, it is your choice how many underthings you leave on. I prefer to leave on my underwear but take off my bra. I don’t care if someone is touching my bare back and I prefer not to have someone working around my bra straps and getting them all greased up with massage oil.

At this point I would like to ask my children (and quite frankly any of their friends who might be following me) to STOP READING NOW. I do not need them to have any of the following images of me in their mind at all, ever, at any time in their lives.

The massage starts out like any other massage. She works on my back for a long time. It is fine, typical, not much news here. Except here’s the thing: I am an over-thinker. Like, give me an hour in a quiet room and I’m going to start thinking about all the things I need to get done for the day. It’s not really an anxious train of thought, more like a “working massage,” if you will. It’s just who I am. It’s unfortunate. It doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the massages, I just often feel that I am still tensed up as I am trying hard to relax. My mind starts to wander…

I wonder who is playing this massage flute music? Do flutists get commissioned specifically for massage soundtracks? “Okay, Hans, this next piece is for the massage parlor on 14th Street, just make it soothing and generic, but it has to be about 50 minutes long.” If I Shazamed this song would it come up with something like “Flute and Harp Massage Remix/Mashup”?

Back to the massage. As she finishes my upper back area she pulls the towel down a bit. And down a bit more, and more, taking my undies along with it, until I realize I needn’t have contemplated whether or not to leave them on as they are basically as low as they can go.
“Okay?” She asks.

“Uh-huh,” I lie.

Now if you think at this point I am relaxed, think again. Instead, I am now worried about numerous things I won’t go into. After what seems like an eternity, the masseuse finishes my back and starts working on my legs. Phew, I think, the uncomfortable part is over.

Nope. Think again. Think again.

She moves the towel to the side, basically giving me a homemade thong, and goes to work. Now, maybe this does not come as a surprise to some of you, but for someone who generally goes to get massages NOT IN STRIP MALLS from establishments NOT NAMED JUST ONE LETTER, I was a bit surprised. Also, when someone is working in this area and you are tense, I don’t need to tell you what part of your body clenches up.

Finally, she finishes my backside and leans down and says something. Unfortunately, with my head far down in the oval opening and towels around my face, I can’t really hear her, but it does not sound like “roll over.” She says it again.

I lift my head to hear better and the circular cut-out face paper towel comes with it.

I catch a few words…”Hot…towel…clean”

I am now looking at her with a paper ring framing my face, stuck to me with sweat or condensation or who knows what. (I wish I had a picture of myself looking up at her. Don’t think I wasn’t tempted to grab my phone and take a pic of myself, as by now I was mentally writing this blog and trying hard not to forget every funny thing that had happened).

“Okay,” I say.

She comes back in with of course a HOT TOWEL to CLEAN my back. She rubs my back hard as if I were getting a Turkish massage, and ends with a strange karate chop on my back and tells me to flip over.

I mentally prepare for what to say if she decides to pull the towel down to my waist again and leave me topless on the table. I quickly make a list of phrases in my head like “No, thank you,” “No please” and “NO TOUCH” among other things. I prepare to wrestle the towel with her if I have to.

Thankfully, she leaves the towel on me and begins with my arms and shoulders, kneading and rubbing for a short while until she finishes with a flourish by grabbing my fingers in a weird enlaced “Titanic in the backseat of the car” clasping kind of way. She then takes my wrist and shakes my whole arm hard, wiggling it like I have no bones. I worry she will break all my arm bones and I will be the first person who needs a cast after a massage.

On to my legs. Dear Lord, when will this be over. Let’s just say I was really hoping when I shaved my legs that morning I did a thorough job. Her finale is to move my legs into a frog-like position while massaging them as I panic and pray there are no hidden cameras in the room. She tries to do the same floppy wiggle with my legs, but as they are considerably heavier, it just ends up that she picks my leg up by the ankle and drops it with a loud THUD back to the table. She gives my legs a karate chop, which I now assume is the universal massage sign for “all done.”

I assume incorrectly. Still to come is a head massage. I agree to this, but then panic as she pours a bunch of oil into her hands. We are supposed to go out to dinner after this. I don’t need a hair full of oil.

“No oil,” I say.

When I decided to leave out verbs as I spoke, I have no idea. It’s like I’m Kevin from The Office. (Why waste time say lot word when few word do trick)? She either ignores me or doesn’t care, as she proceeds to rub my head. She focuses hard on my angry 11s over and over which I suppose is a lot cheaper than Botox but makes me feel bad about myself, as if she was trying her darndest to rub out those pesky wrinkles that simply won’t go away. It suddenly dawns on me all of the places she has touched with her bare hands before ending with my face.

Finally, it is over. She leaves the room, taking the unlabeled bottle of oil she has been using with her. All I can think is….

I can’t wait to get home so I can relax.