It is my anniversary (FANKyouveddymuch) so, as is our tradition, me and D offed for an us-themed getaway. This retreat included a massage. Jiff has written excellently about this phenomenon in the past (care to share, J?), but I think the strangeness of this topic deserves another visit. Here is my story.
* This is a bizarre little world they've cooked up, here. Even before you walk in the door, the signals are there. Candles everywhere. What could only be regarded as asian-influenced lawn ornaments litter the inside of this place. Signage everywhere is telling you to RELAX. There are provocative, organic aromas everywhere. Everything is soft. You slip off your workaday clothes and put on robes. There's classical guitar music playing quietly. Sound like anything you've ever heard of before? Yeah, the cues don't say HEALTH, the cues say ROMANCE! This is problematic and weird.
* As I'm preparing (as it is) to have a 20something woman pet my hair, caress my chest, and rub my upper thighs (many famous men have had charges brought against them for very similar activities), I ask my WIFE which of my clothes I should take off (I rarely ask anyone this question). My WIFE tells me "take off as much as you're comfortable with." This is MY WIFE. It struck me that people like musrat and moljer would instantly take off every stitch of clothing, and people like Jiff would actually ADD some clothing at the suggestion that they make themselves "as comfortable as possible." I opted for, ahem, 'undies on'.
* I am too big for this activity. There are no booties that fit me, and the ridiculous robe they give me ties around the middle of my ribs. It's... silly. When I go into the PRIVATE ROOM with me and my new ladyfriend (remember the mood lighting and music and my state of undress as I ask you "Does this sound advisable to anybody who wants to maintain their married status?), I learn that I don't fit on their little table. (for what it's worth, I like these tables. I like a table where I can lie completely face-down and still be comfortable.) This whole scene wasn't built for masculinity, marital fidelity, nor those of us Born Large.
* I've been instructed by friends to relax during a massage, not to think too much or (as been my m.o. in the past) talk non-stop. "Simply enjoy it." Impossible. At the outset, the woman (I never even knew her name!) began to slowly massage my head. And I had a thought: this woman must be more sensitive to the human body than I am. She's knowledgeable, skilled, and experienced in dealing with bodies. She has a discerning eye, surely. So, what is she thinking about MY body? I suddenly want to start a long list of apologies. "If you run into some flaking on my scalp up there, I am so sorry. I know I am a repulsive pig. Later, you're going to find a toenail that looks like a long-abandoned corn chip. Again, I'm sorry. That's an old basketball injury... it looks a heck of a lot better than it once did. And I think there's a a zit on my thigh--I know that will be gross for you. And if the patchouli oil is overcome by the smell on onions, well it was on our pizza last night..."
* As she's kneading my body (and burrowing into my calves like the meaning of life will present itself to her, as long as she DIGS), I think "there are really only three options here. Either she is not enjoying this for the aforementioned reasons, which makes me feel horrible and want to leave immediately, or she IS enjoying this, which is creepy and offputting and makes me want to leave immediately or--and here comes the best case scenario--she is completely inured to the whole thing and just doesn't care at all. Yup, that's best case: the person who's been given incredibly intimate access to my person is totally apathetic about it.
Here's a picture of someone hating someone they're massaging.
* When this woman was finished working me over, I was slimy and smelly and was offered a shower on the premises, which I accepted. After showering and re-dressing (relief!), I sheepishly waved to everyone on duty and slinked out. I made sure none of the newspapers were there to photograph me coming out of the shameful House of Rubbing. Just felt like I'd paid filthy lucre so that someone ELSE would have carnal knowledge of ME. (What a ripoff, huh?)
* I decided while in the spa that, because of the massive amounts of (already discussed) physical intimacy involved, Jesus would not go for a massage, and maybe I should never do this again for that reason. I told Didi so later that day but, as if she'd been waiting on this suggestion, she snapped back, "He was obviously okay with the anointing oil and the foot massage that lady gave him." Huh. Shut my mouth.
Come, all you who are holding stress in your shoulders, and I will give you a thorough pummeling.