Have you ever had a really bad massage?
I know, I know. Talk about First World problems. My masseuse was inept and my martini was made with bottom-shelf vodka and there’s a dent in my Bentley, life is so haaaaaarrrdd.
Whatever. Don’t judge me. It’s not like I go every week.
(Obviously, if I could afford it, I’d go every day. Fortunately my circumstances prevent me from being such an indulgent asshole.)
I thought, what with the running and me managing to run 25 minutes in a row now, (go me) that I would take a break from the foam roller and go get a proper massage. You know, in the interest of continuing to exercise without relying too heavily on ibuprofen. I used to go for massages pretty regularly, when I was waitressing and had a screwed-up back and disposable income, but the massage therapist I used to see has long since moved on. So I just booked one at the same place.
And it was fucking terrible.
I have never felt less relaxed in my whole life. That girl had a Vulcan death pinch and sharp little thumbs, with about as much finesse as a 14 year old going for 3rd base. There was no cheesy relaxing music and she wanted to chat.
Don’t chat, man. Just don’t.
I explained to her my main source of concern – hip and a calf muscle and, well, legs, because, running! – and she worked on my lower back, one calf muscle, and then spent the rest of the time on my neck and shoulders.
Which, granted, had huge knots in them, but the whole point of this endeavour was to stick with the running. I don’t run with my shoulders. I’m not aware of anyone who does, but feel free to correct me.
I actually felt kind of nauseous when I left, she’d been pinching my neck so hard, and I mumbled something about “playing it by ear” for another appointment and then tipped her really well anyway because apparently I’m identifying with Catholic guilt lately.
I mean, what do you do? Ask for your money back? Demand she do it over again?
No, really. I’m asking.