I went away last weekend to the beach. I hiked, lazed on the beach, saw a play and went to a museum. On the last day of the trip, I got a fancy massage. I had a coupon.
Nothing impresses a snooty spa lady like a coupon. In case you don’t recognize it, that was sarcasm. She pushed a clipboard at me and told me to fill it out. Did you know they need your medical history to rub your shoulders a little? Odd.
It was the kind of place that has ceramic Buddhas, waterfalls and bamboo. I drank water with cucumbers in it. It was either a very, very wet salad or someone’s idea of a refreshing beverage. It was delicious, by the way.
As I filled out the form, I rubbed my neck. It was hurting. I stopped rubbing my neck because it was a little bit like cleaning up before the maid comes. I decided to wait for the professional.
Before going to the beach, I slept funny. Not ha-ha funny. I pulled my neck in a nightmare. I didn’t know that you could pull a muscle in a bad dream, but that’s what I think happened. My ear hurt, too. It was another bedtime injury. I woke up and realized I was sleeping on the dangly square part of the zipper in my pillow.
The spa lady asked me if I preferred a man or a woman. It seemed like a personal question. I said, “I’ll take first available.” It was of little consequence to me. It was like when the hostess asks you if you want a booth or a table. Also, it sounds weird if you say, “I want a woman.” It also sounds weird when you say, “I want a man.” It’s like being asked, “Do I look fat in this dress?” There’s just no right answer.
I got Casey, a woman. She had just moved to the beach after working at Nemacolin. I felt a little betrayed. I drove for eight hours to get a masseuse who was, up until a few weeks ago, less than an hour away.
She went out of the room while I undressed. I am somewhat repressed, as I have a problem with taking off my clothes in unfamiliar surroundings without buying someone dinner first. It was a dark, candlelit room. Soft, soothing music played, but in my head, I was all, “Boom Chicka Wa Wa.” Even in a fancy joint, my inner Beavis and Butthead come out.
I had to put a towel on my nether regions, half of the towel covered the front; the other half covered the back. I sort of looked like a fat Tarzan. Actually, I looked like a gorilla in a diaper.
I had to get under the sheet. It’s hard to shimmy under the covers and keep a towel in place.
Casey came back to the room, and things went very well. She was well-trained and talented. I’m still a little weird about a stranger touching me, but she massaged the pain right out of my neck. For the record, there was no “Boom Chicka Wa Wa.” It wasn’t that kind of place.
I felt 10 times better, and that was enough of a happy ending for me.