Happy Little Trees

I got a massage yesterday. We almost had a disaster at work, which was quite frightening, but we were released from work early. So after I did a bit of shopping, I decided it was time I checked out the massage chain that I’ve heard about where you can get your first massage for $39. I went to the closest one to my house, and walked up to the counter to see if they accepted “walk-ins.” There were only a few ladies sitting who were waiting, and an older gentleman that worked there (maybe the janitor?) who walked in with me, and several girls in matching shirts standing behind computer screens.

The girl behind screen #4 squeezed me in so I could get an appointment right away. She glanced quickly at girl behind screen #3 and appeared to give her “the look,” so I was a bit concerned about my massage adventure. After making a quick trip to the bathroom, I started to make my way back to the lobby when I was stopped by the older janitor man who was holding a clipboard.

“You must be Beth,” he said.

I flashed my best Oscar-winning smile, “Yes, I am!” And I began to secretly say a series of rosary prayers as only a devout Baptist can.

After a few minutes, I finally relaxed and realized that he was a professional, and I was a professional, so therefore, we have a professional experience on our hands—or his hands—or whatever. The massage actually wasn’t that bad. And what am I looking for in a massage therapist anyway? Tall, dark, and handsome? It’s a massage. Not a date. (Perhaps not the best comparison. Don’t know quite how to compare the two.)

This experience solidifies that I will only use a female masseuse. Once before, my appointment was with a young male at a fancy spa for a quick back massage. Afterwards, he said, “Hope you enjoyed it.”

That was so weird.

If you could just know that clearly in his/her mind and clearly in your mind, this is a therapeutic experience, everything would be much better. I try to keep in mind that it’s like going to the doctor…but what about the mood music? And where’s the paper gown to help me feel safe? And why are the lights so low?

Now I need therapy over massage therapy.