Sunday is my true day of rest. This Sunday was going to be even
more special… beard trim, pedicure and a massage. A real treat! I think more
men should do these kinds of things, especially the pedicure. It feels good to
be pampered and it is really relaxing. So needless to say I was really looking
forward to my day.
It started off with a great beard trim. Every man should go
to a professional barber at least once in your life to get a shave and/or trim.
This time I just went to get my glorious beard a little attention, but I have
been in the chair before, reclined back, warm towel on my face, straight razor
on my neck… just waiting to get whacked just like in the movies. But in the
end, it feels great and my face always feels amazing for days afterward.
Then it was off to the pedicure. This is something I enjoy wholeheartedly
and fear immensely. I have heard a lot of jokes and comments about how the
staff at places like this will talk in their native tongue (this particular
place, most of them were speaking Vietnamese) about the client, maybe making fun
of them or something like that. I don’t feel that way when I am there. I don’t
think that the staff is just talking about me… I feel that the other clients
are talking about me as well. To the point that they are speed learning
Vietnamese to converse with their technician about the fat guy at the end with
his feet dangling in the water and talking about if he even realizes how bad
his feet really are and that he should be charged double. This has caused me so
much stress in the past that I have
basically given myself a pedicure BEFORE I even go to the professionals and act
like “my feet are always this taken care of”. It’s like vacuuming before the
cleaning people come or making the bed in a hotel room… we just can’t be looked
at like the slobs we are, can we?
I made it through both of those events and it was time for
the massage. It was a new place, clean and cool. Check-in went well and there I
sat waiting for 50 minutes of relaxation and rejuvenation. 50 minutes to lay
there under my blanket and get lost in the oily hands of the a professional masseuse
who’s only goal, in my mind, is to make me fall asleep for 49 of the 50 minutes
because I am slowly turning into a marshmallow. Well, that was the plan! It was
a plan that was paved in dreams and expectations and ended up being the road to
hell in a greasy hand basket.
My masseuse walked me to the room and told me to get as “undressed
as I feel comfortable” and lay down under the blanket face down. It started off
pretty easy and normal and so I did and laid there waiting, not knowing what
was to come next. Because of my face down, prone position I could not see her
face when she walked in nor could I hear the grinding and gnashing of her
teeth.
Let me make an assumption here before I start in order to
define the perceived mood of my masseuse. I am pretty sure that moments before
she strolled into that dim room that her boyfriend had called to let her know
that he was leaving because of his herpes secret and that she needs to be
checked and that her car was, at that very moment, being repossessed and the
IRS had called to let her know that she was being audited AGAIN and that although
she was at least 30, that her belief of the Easter Bunny was misguided because
just like the Tooth Fairy (which she has believed in until 30 seconds before my
massage), they weren’t real. I was in for it and had NOT A CLUE what I was in
for.
So she walks in and starts the assault… I am massage. She
starts by asking me if I had any injuries or areas that needed less pressure.
As I told her about these areas the blood that was rushing through her veins so
loudly that she could not even come close to hearing what I had to say. She
just saw all of her fury lying on the table in the form of a fat guy with a
totally breathtaking beard. NOW… As soon as her hands touch me, well her oiled
up elbows actually, I knew I was in trouble. The sound of the all of the air
escaping from my body was pretty loud. I am sure it was mixed with the sound of
my soul exiting my living being. I will spare you the blow by blow of the mugging
I endured and will give you the highlights:
Five separate times I said a variation of “WOW
THAT HURTS, A LOT”.Once I
asked her to stop because I had to wipe the tears from my eyes. I had to tell her I was ticklish at one point so
she would stop digging her elbows into my rib cage. She fucking sneezed on me! Not directly on me
but I totally felt the wind on my back! She asked me if I needed a tissue. Not for my
snot, but for my tears. When I did turn over I instinctively went into
the fetal position and she had to tell me to lay flat on my back. A few times I almost blurted out my social
security number and PIN number. I found myself hitting my hand against the table
in a subliminal “tap out”.
When it was all said and done she said “That will teach you
Mother-Fucker!” and stormed out. Well not really because I have NO IDEA what
she said. I was laying there trembling. Thankful that the 50 hours, I mean
minutes was over and I would never have to see her again.
It’s now 24 hours later and I have to tell you. I feel as if
I was beaten with a sock full of silver dollars. I am in worse shape than I
went into the massage! I feel mildly violated. I have thought about calling the
company and complaining but I really don’t want to fuck over the next poor guy
that sees this lady. I am somewhat companionate to other people!
The long and short of it is I was abused and left for dead…
but my beard is breathtaking, so that’s not so bad of a day.
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