I don’t get massages often. I have trouble justifying paying an exorbitant amount of money for what sometimes turns out to be nothing more than a glorified back rub. But after walking 71 miles during my week in London and hauling countless boxes during my move last weekend, I decided to treat my sore muscles to a little TLC.
When I checked in at the massage parlor after work yesterday, my masseuse asked me what type of aroma therapy I wanted: lavender, eucalyptus or rosemary. I’m pretty sure I said, “Eucalyptus, please,” but she must have heard “Poop-alyptus, please,” because about five minutes into the massage, the cleansing scent of Eucalyptus was overtaken by something foul and sinister.
Fortunately, I was face down on the massage table, so I was able to pretend I didn’t smell anything unpleasant. Meanwhile, Denise (as we’ll call her) continued to gently press her fingers into my back. Emphasis on gently. Remember that glorified back rub we talked about earlier? Yeah. Denise must have missed the memo that I paid for a deep tissue massage.
I’m pretty sure Denise was new to this whole massage therapy thing, not only because of her light touch, but also because only a newbie at a job where you’re in a confined space with your client would choose to eat a bean burrito for lunch and then expel large quantities of noxious fumes into said confined space, completely fouling the entire aroma therapy portion of massage therapy.
I was relieved when Denise moved on to my feet, because then at least her burrito bombs exploded a few feet further away from my face. But then she started tickling me. I started laughing out loud, not only because I was ticklish, but because the entire situation was so uncomfortable! After a while, the dust mites in the headrest triggered my allergies, completely clogging my sinuses, which was unfortunate for purposes of oxygenation but rather fortuitous as it related to the Poop-alyptus aroma in the room.
Never before have I so badly wanted my hour of massage therapy to be over so quickly. Common courtesy required that I stay and allow Denise to do her job but, rather than paying for an hour of relaxing muscle therapy, I found that I paid for an hour in the Masseuse’s torture chamber where I was stripped down, felt up, poked, prodded, tickled and finally, gassed.