Filed under: Life in general
I had a massage this evening. I paid $114 for this decadent service which, unless you’re on a dingy vinyl fold-up massage table in Chinatown, most would consider a pretty good deal. Let me be clear: this is only the third massage I’ve paid for in my life. I was doing this merely for research purposes. That, and I’ve got a crick in my right calf that won’t go away and I’m too lazy to find it on my own. Given all the hype (and cost), I would have thought that there would be something to it; in fact, I found nothing particularly gratifying about it. To be sure, there is something slightly corrupt about having someone’s hands rub all over you for the sake of selfish enjoyment, but I have to admit, when I wasn’t wincing from the vise-like fingers tracking my tendons, I was obsessing over what Corey might think of my stinky feet that I forgot to wash before getting up on the massage table. They don’t tell you about these kinds of things when you’re booking your appointment.
So– rather than feeling blissful and smooshy as I wanted, I felt more tense than when I had started.
On the bright side, I discovered the wonders of faux shearling heating blankets.
