If my parents are any indication, the secret to a long-lasting partnership is foot rubs on demand. Such an arrangement requires a firm hand, a heavy dose of patience, and an air of passive resignation - all of which make for an excellent mate. After fifty years of marriage, my father has massaged my mother's poor, nubbly feet thousands of times. He once said that my mother's gravestone should read, "A little to the left, dear."
Perhaps I've taken this too literally, because recently I've pressed the The Hawk into service perhaps more than is allowed. The If he so much as grazes my neck, I pounce. "Yes! Right there! A little harder! Not so hard! Can you feel the knot?" And so poor long-suffering Fauxhawk twangs the guitar strings that attach my head to my body, while I yelp with ecstasy and pain.
"Honey, you have to get a massage," he says. "The knots are terrible."
"I don't like strange people touching my butt."
"They're not going to touch your butt! I've never had anyone touch my butt!"
"I've heard they massage your butt," I say emphatically. "And that cannot happen."
I know because I have polled people on this very question, and the results have been mixed. It's about 50-50 butt-touch to no butt-touch. I am not comfortable with those odds. B
But lately, the massive knots in my shoulders and upper back have crippled me to the point where I am uncomfortable all the time. I spend a substantial amount of time each day fantasizing about taking a melon baller to my back and scooping out the knots. I am desperate. I will do anything. I will even get a massage.
When I
arrive at the quick and dirty Chinese holistic medicine studio next door, I fill
out a form. Am I afflicted with bad breath? Menstruation? Decreased sex drive?
Inflexibility? These questions are somewhat worrying, especially since I am not
anticipating an intimate sexual encounter with a large Latina massage therapist
named Maricella.
"So what is your issue?" she asks in heavily accented English.
"Basically, I need you to take a meat tenderizer to my shoulders."
I admit to her that I am a massage novice.
She claps her hands with glee. "A virgin! Touched for the very first time!"
Oh dear God, please help me.
I am on the table, my face squashed into a doughnut and my mouth stretched in the manner of Batman's Joker. It's quiet and I notice the distinct lack of Enya. Why is there no Enya? Isn't there supposed to be Enya?
Maricella moves my arm about, twisting it this way and that, the way one does when removing the wings from a roaster.
"Tsk," she says. "You are too tense!"
No shit, Sherlock. "Sorry!" I say. Part of me is disappointed that I am already screwing up. Maricella doesn't like me! I am a bad patient! Love me, Maricella! Love me!
"RELAX YOUR ARM!" she says in a voice louder than one would typically image a massage therapist would use.
"I'm trying!"
She gives up on the arm and heads for the thighs.
"I really don't need--" I begin nervously, but I am not match for Maricella, who is pounded away on my legs and getting dangerously close to the gluteal region. In panic, I go rigor mortis.
"How are we doing?" she asks, draping scalding hot cloths on my back.
"Fffine..." I reply, realizing that a long string of drool has just escaped pool on the floor below me.
Fifty minutes and seventy-five bucks later, I am at home reporting back to Fauxhawk. I tell him that this massage business is a load of sweaty balls.
"You are
far better than any massage therapist," I tell him.
Hint, hint.
He sighs and pounds vigorously on my shoulders.
A little to the left, dear.
All images via We Heart It.
