I think I just got a rubdown from a convict.
When I lived in Oregon, I went to a Massage Envy chain. I really needed a massage, and had no friends in the area to provide a recommendation. Massage Envy was near my house, so I went there- and got the best massage I ever had from a guy who looked like he could have been my grandfather. I bought a Massage Envy membership in my post-massage euphoria, brought on by the hands of Gramps.
Now, I am back in AZ, and I still have the membership- not because it is great, but because I have until August before my contract runs out. I am not a person who schedules regular massages. I wait until I am in excruciating pain, and then call to see if I can get in immediately- a dream customer.
Today, I didn’t even call. I just dropped in and inquired if anyone was free. I was informed that Tim could see me right then.
Tim came through the door looking as if he just did a meth deal in the back alley. Greasy looking, covered in bad tattoos (the irony of me judging someone on his bad tattoos is not lost on me. I’m a hypocrite.) He reminded me of Doug Stanhope with a lotion holster. I started an internal argument.
Should I let this guy give me a massage?
Who are you to judge! Just because he has some bad tattoos?
I know, but he looks a little scary.
Massages have nothing to do with appearance. Besides, maybe he did spend some time in the joint. He’s trying to play it straight now. (My inner child talks like a 1970’s television detective.
My neck hurt. I opted for the massage.
Tim asks me what areas I wanted to focus on. I always have a hard time with this, because I feel like a weirdo asking for what I want- I really like to have my head massaged. I have a girlfriend who used to be a massage therapist, and I once inquired how to make this request. She replied “I just say that the scalp is very important to me.”
In my nervous state, I mess up the words and say “head is very important to me.”- which carries a slightly different connotation.
Tim appears un-phased, and leaves so I can undress. I get on the table and cover up. He returns to start the massage. I had noticed how hairy his arms when I shook his hand. As he rubbed his forearm along my back, I could feel the hair prickling against me. Which is kind of gross. But the rest of the time, the massage is fantastic and I stop wondering what Tim would look like in an orange jumpsuit.
Tim finishes with my back and moves on to my legs. He asks “would you like any work on your gluts?”
I have had probably fifty massages and have never had someone ask about my gluts. I decline, and begin to wonder why he had asked. Did he think I had a cute butt? Was he trying to feel me up? This almost instantly goes down the road of why have I never been asked this before? Did all the other therapists think my ass was terrible? why don’t they want to touch my butt?
I flip over. I wonder if Tim is going to try to get his hands on my pecs next. He seems to be going that route, and I think aha! I knew it! Pervert! I had told Tim I mountain biked. He moves away from my pecs and on to my arms saying “usually mountain bikers have tense pecs, but yours are fine.” I guess Tim wasn’t hitting on me after all. Sometimes I forget that I am no longer the resident hot chick in the room. I am the forty year old without makeup, with stretchmarks and saddle bags. Ugh. Stupid brain.
Tim goes to work on my scalp as requested. He pushes on my head as if he is trying to pry open a coconut with his bare hands. He asks if the pressure is good, or if I prefer something a little more froo-froo. Even though I am screaming for froo-froo, I say “no, it’s fine.” I am wanting to impress Tim with how tough I am- Tim, the guy who looks like he hotwired a car to get here, the guy I am paying for the massage.
The massage is over. I dress and leave the room, hoping to save myself from future embarrassment. Tim escorts me to the front, on the way asking “how was the scalp massage? You seemed very adamant about that.” Guess that head comment wasn’t lost on Tim after all.
I left Tim to hitch a ride home from a stranger, and went to restore my dignity at Target by purchasing tampons and crayons like any other mom whose brain was not working against her.