September 29, 2008

My First Massage

Not too long ago I got my first real massage.

OK guys, get all the stupid “Lucky Lotus Massage Parlor” and “Happy Ending” jokes out of your system. I’ll wait.

Finished? Good.

I got my massage from a licensed massage therapist, a trained and highly skilled professional who has spent years studying and perfecting her craft. She is a very nice woman, who just recently opened up “Seek Within,” a tasteful and spiritually restful storefront business almost directly across the street from our house. She is also a practicing nurse.

OK guys, get all the stupid “Naughty Nurse” jokes out of your system. I’ll wait.

Finished? Good.

When I went in for my massage, I have to admit that I was kind of apprehensive. Back in my school days, when I spent a fair amount of my time as a voluntary football tackling dummy, the team employed a masseur who generally worked on the more productive players – the guys who scored lots of touchdowns, the guys who killed and ate opposing linemen, and the guy(s) who dated the coach’s daughter. The only time I made it to the massage table, the masseur tried to cure a “charlie horse” by taking my left foot and shoving the big toe into my right ear.

And later in life, when I was playing “Masters,” (aka “old fart”) ice hockey, I often visited the chiropractor to have all my vertebrae methodically crushed and rearranged.

So when the massage therapist led me into the treatment room I was mainly thinking that, in the interest in keeping up appearances, I should probably try to minimize any kind of screaming or begging for mercy. After all, the woman is a neighbor who I am bound to encounter now and then in the pet food aisle at the grocery store.

What I had not considered was that she was going to say, “OK, I’m going to step out of the room for a few minutes while you undress to the extent you feel comfortable.”

As I stood there alone in the cozy little candle-lit room, listening to the relaxing sounds of soft guitar music coming from the speakers near the head of the massage table, all my fear of the physical punishment that was to come evaporated like morning mist in a warm summer sun.

It was replaced with the terrifying realization that, under my denim shorts – the ones with the manly rivets by the pockets and the macho tool loop on the side – I was wearing my Curious George “Christmas Fun” boxer shorts.

You just have to wonder how something like that will play out later, running into the massage therapist somewhere between the Whisker Lickens and the Ferret Chow. “Oh hi,” I would say. “What’s new?”

“Nothing much,” she would say, suppressing a snicker. “What do you hear from the Man in the Yellow Hat?”

So standing there next to the massage table, I had a decision to make. Do I ‘fess up and just let her see the boxers? Do I abandon all modesty, strip down to nothing, and hide the evidence in the pocket of my shorts? Or do I stay fully dressed and wind up coming across like some deeply religious Republican congressman on those occasional evenings when he is not trolling for gay sex in an airport men’s room?

I won’t say what I finally decided to do. I will tell you that the massage itself was pretty much uneventful and deeply relaxing, with virtually no sobbing or shrieking on my part. I left “Seek Within” feeling relaxed and happy, and I can heartily recommend the entire experience.

Just do a quick underpants check before you go.

Copyright ©2008 Michael Ball. Distributed exclusively by North Star Writers Group.

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