My Happy Massage
The Janitor Tried to Make Me Fly!
I really should’ve turned around.
At the words massage parlor, I should have stammered my way out of the situation.
But no. The perky brunette ringleader of our group mom date was so animated about it.
I stood there in the pouring rain wondering, how did I manage to get roped into this evening? Don’t get me wrong, I liked the company. But being the mothers of my son’s friends, I didn’t know them very well. I’m not much of a social butterfly. What can I say? I prefer to sit at home in my PJs, glasses, and unbrushed hair, and think bitter things about the Stepford wives of the world. I’m lazy like that.
But there are certain times you do it for the kids.
These moms seemed pretty cool, so when the invitation was extended to come out for ladies’ night while our boys hung out with a dad — well, someone’s dad—I figured it would be a good opportunity to come out of my shell and venture away from my comfort zone (aka “watching Hoarders with my cats and a glass of cabernet”).
Oh, right. And it would be good for my son, too. But he didn’t have an issue with social anxiety and stupor like I did.
We met for a quick glass of wine at a local dive. Our ringleader arranged the rest of the evening as a surprise, instructing us to make sure we wore comfortable clothes and tank tops.
“Our appointment is at 8:00,” she said.
After our drink, we stood outside the bar as she began to detail our plans for the next hour.
Down the street, in the darkest corner of this Southern California valley town, our destiny awaited us in a strip mall with but a single flickering street light marking its existence.
Her eyes sparkled, and she spoke super-duper-extra-super-yay-team fast.
“Okay, so have you ever been to a Chinese foot massage? It’s really great. It’s a whole hour. Only $20. It’s so great. You’ll never want to go to Burke-Williams again. It’s not a spa, but it’s amazing. I go every week. To de-stress. Ya know? It’s amazing. We go in groups. You don’t have to get undressed. It’s super relaxing. You’ll love it. I can’t wait to hear what you have to say. Are you so excited?”
Silence.
“Oh, that sounds great!” said other mom #1, who was infinitely more down to earth than I.
“Wait. So, wait…so, like, it’s a foot massage?” I stammered.
She was ridiculously excited. I was expecting her to start cheering.
Ready, O—KAY!
“Yeah! There is a foot massage. But it isn’t just a foot massage. It’s a full-body massage!” Her next words were very pointed. “For only $20!”
Full body massage. At this, I accidentally swallowed my gum. Particularly alarming considering I wasn’t chewing any.
“And…what is the name of this place?” I asked, quickly adding a hardy smile in hopes that I wasn’t sounding too skeptical.
She waved her hand, “oh, Happy-something.”
Happy something?
Happy something? Come on! Really?!
“Happy Feet, maybe?” she uttered.
Oy vey.
The thing is, I’m not a prude. But I’m not a touchy-feely kind of broad either. I hate massages. I have a lot of neck and back issues, but massages tend to make those worse. I can’t relax during a massage. But I can be open-minded. I guess.
I wanted to fit in. I wanted to make friends and I wanted to have fun. So while I was having insane crazy lady conversations with myself in my head, I smiled and went with the flow.
Sure, was slightly skeeved. I totally would have preferred the upscale Burke-Williams spa over this. But, whatever. I’d try something new. What the heck, this could open up a whole new…happy world.
God, I hope it’s not dirty.
We arrived at the strip mall tucked away in that dark little corner of the valley. The sign above the door simply read CHINESE FOOT MASSAGE. There were a couple of faded anime window decals that looked like they had nothing to do with anything. And neon. Lots of neon. But cool. You know. That’s cool.
Bells jingled as we opened the door into the dimly lit community room. There were approximately three rows of five reclining tables with ottomans. I chose the recliner next to the mom (“down to earth mom”) of my son’s best friend. We were first instructed to sit on the ottomans. Our masseuses (and I use that term loosely) each brought a plastic bag-lined bucket of warm water for our feet. Cool. Just like my days of wadin’ in de crick. They piled several smelly pillows on our laps covered by a scratchy white towel.
My masseuse was the one man in the joint.
As he covered me with the bad breath-stenched pillows and sandpaper towel, I quickly came to the conclusion that his noisy, clanging janitor key ring and tuberculosis cough might prove to be a distraction.
Oh my God. They gave me the janitor.
As my feet soaked in the leech bucket, he started working on my neck. I knew he could tell this was my problem area. I’m not sure if was because as I became more tense, my shoulders aligned with my temples or if it was because of the clicking in there, but The Janitor clearly decided he was going to go all chiropractor on me. I grimaced in fear. As he started attempting to crack my neck, I began imagining how I was going to be carried out on a stretcher. Stroke. Aneurysm. Neck break.
I’m going to die!
Thankfully, he wasn’t very successful, so he moved on to a new technique—one I like to call “that move where the nanny dislocates your toddler’s arm out of its socket because she’s too clueless to realize you don’t pick children up that way.” He lifted my arms up over my head, held me by my wrists, and tried — twisting me? I don’t know. All I can say is it’s a good thing I had a glass or two of wine in me, otherwise, on instinct I would have turned around and punched him in the balls.
As quickly as he nearly broke my neck, he finished.
He then pointed to the table.
Oh, okay. I guess it’s time for the body part. Great. This should be fun.
I stood up, and like Lucille Ball stomping on wine grapes, I clumsily sloshed out of the water to plop my ass down. He wildly gestured, practically — is he laughing at me?
I looked around. Oh. Everyone else daintily swiveled around while still in the water and delicately slid onto the table. Oh, whatever. This was like a $20 recipe for getting my neck nearly broken, what did they want from me?
When he worked on my neck, at least I had things like the possibility of death to focus on. Now, lying down, having to relax and be quiet is where I fell apart. The massage itself was practically irrelevant. Was it good? Well, no. I liked having my head rubbed, and that’s about it. The rest of it was an exercise in having my body flapped around crudely, and I was having a hard time believing he was certified in squat. But I was there for the experience and to bond with the gals, so fine. It was everything else that was killing me.
I have a thing about noises.
Little noises. The sound of whistling freaks me out.
Gum snapping.
Food chewing.
Talking.
Normal stuff, you know? Especially in situations where it is supposed to be calm and serene.
I also need certain noises to concentrate.
I can’t have silence.
I need noise to be calm.
I have issues.
Lying down, all I could do was hear things. I heard The Janitor’s keys jingling. I heard him coughing in my face and the spittle of his mouth. The synchronized sound of the masseuses slapping their clients. Interesting technique. Which was totally funny. The Janitor was chattering with the masseuse next to him. Water was sloshing. The washer and dryer running in the back. People moaning (gross). The bells above the door rang whenever someone walked in. The phone kept ringing. It was quiet chaos.
I was also freaking out, praying that I — for lack of a better way to put this—wouldn’t have, you know, lady issue problems arise on the cheap scratchy white Chinese massage parlor happy place’s towel. Yeah, this was totally relaxing. I tried to tell myself to shut all that out. Focus on something else. The music. Listen to the music. Or the…muzak. Madonna muzak to be specific.
Where is the bubbling stream or whatever? Instead, we are listening to a “Crazy For You” midi file? Friggin’ awesome.
Just at this Crazy For You awe-inspiring moment, he lifted my arms above my head like wings and started slapping them together. As he attempted to make me fly, my middle-aged underarm chicken fat swung back and forth with wild abandon. I couldn’t control it — I burst out laughing.
I mean, there’s nothing like your own arm fat flapping in the air to break up the monotony, right?
My eyes were closed, and I instantly stopped myself. But the seal had been broken. It was like trying not to laugh in church. All I could hear was the Madonna music — excuse me, muzak — and slapping, and keys, and coughing, and arm fat flapping, and I could barely control the big fat parade smile on my face while I desperately prayed for it to be over soon.
“So?! I’m dying to know what you thought!” She was just as animated as before we went in.
I paused. “It was…it was greeeeeat.”
I tried not to sound too phony. I don’t think I pulled it off very well. I didn’t want to sound unappreciative. I know she wanted us all to relax and thought we would all love it as much as she did. It certainly was an experience, just not for me — and certainly not very…happy. When I woke up feeling like I had a dislocated shoulder, I knew for sure that it wasn’t happy.
As we walked away, down to earth mom leaned into me and said, “I could have sworn I heard you laughing…”
“I was!”
“Was it when he was flapping your arms?” she asked with a knowing smile.
Oh my God. How did she know?
I think I have similar issues with noises. Too loud is not good...