On massages


So The Lovely Rhonda gifted me a massage under the condition that I actually schedule it.  I am not good at that sort of thing but bravely phoned up the place and, throwing all caution to the wind, made an appointment for this evening.

It should be noted that last time I got a massage I had just gotten some Very Unpleasant News that made me angry, hurt, and anxious.  I read this news as we drove to the massage place.  I’m not what you call a relaxed person under the best of conditions, so I’m pretty sure that this unfortunate circumstance, combined with my natural state of tension, meant that the poor massage therapist must have felt as if he was rubbing oil into a smoked ham for an hour.  So, I wasn’t all that eager to relive the whole thing.

But I did, on the steely, take-no-prisoners insistence gentle encouragements of TLR, and so this evening I found myself lying face down on one of those massage table things.  Don’t you love how they smoosh your face into a towel-draped doughnut of pillowy comfort? I know I do.

The room was darkened and some kind of Asian-inspired New Age mood music was playing.  It sounded like a group of rhythmically-inclined marmosets hesitantly gonging metal pipes together with a synthesizer going softly nuts in the background while a chorus of indeterminate-gender voices gently oohed and aahed.  I didn’t think I’d find it all that relaxing but it kinda grew on me, right up until Brunhilda started beating me with a shovel.

Okay, I jest.  She was named Allison or something and she was perfectly nice.  She didn’t even comment on how my back felt like a rack of baby back ribs, and she made at least a token effort to not slop oil in my hair.

I think it was the fastest hour in recorded history, and I can now turn my neck in both directions again, sort of.  But how do I look up New Age marmoset pipe music on Amazon?


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