A massage is a very simple exercise. You just lie there and let someone grab and poke away. Leave it to me to make a mess of this normally basic relaxation method.
It started this summer when some of my friends discussed how great it is to get a massage. They were all shocked to learn I had never been massaged-professionally, of course.
Up to this point in my life it's not as if I've ever really done anything that warrants the extreme pampering I relate to a massage. Sure, I worked two jobs this summer, but it's not like I was working in a coal mine or at the loading docks. To me, these are the kind of occupations that probably do warrant receiving a massage.
Of course nobody who gets massages really does anything like this. Take the E! Networks socialite, world traveler extraordinaire, Tara Reid. On her travel show, \Taradise,"" Reid always manages to pull herself away from her strawberry daiquiri for a massage in some exotic locale.
Now there are several things that Tara Reid needs. A bra jumps to mind. But a massage? What does she do that is so stressful? She's getting paid to be drunk and ride on yachts. We should all be so lucky.
In any case, I decided to make an appointment and get myself a massage. I should have known better, though. My friends had built the experience up so much that it was destined to fail miserably.
Things went badly from the second I entered this veritable chamber of relaxation. (As you might have guessed, this isn't the industry term for the place where the massage occurs, but any room with more than one ""Soothing Sounds of Nature"" CD on the shelf can go by no other name.)
My massage therapist, a pleasant and somewhat blunt woman, opened the session by saying, ""Strip down to your Jockeys, lie on the table and yell when you're ready."" Or at least that's what I thought she said. Apparently I wasn't paying close attention and missed the part about climbing under the sheet on said table. (On a side note, I've always been a boxer man, and was a bit insulted by her assumption that I would wear Jockeys.)
This made for an embarrassing moment when I called her back in. Having missed her instruction to sheath myself, I assumed the classic massage position-facedown with a towel over my toosh. This caught her a bit off guard and she directed me to lose the towel and crawl under the cover.
Once in the correct position, the massage began. Actually to be accurate, I should say the interview began. Oh sure, she did her fair share of rubbing and poking, but I hardly noticed it between the Spanish Inquisition she was giving me. It was like I was on ""Meet the Press.""
I tried to relax, but do you realize how hard that is when you're trying to explain the concept of investigative journalism?
Since then, I've learned that it's OK to just give short answers and eventually ignore these questions. But I didn't know that at the time and as a result I ended up leaving more stressed than when I started.
If Tara Reid's massages go anything like mine, it's no wonder she drinks so much. It may be the only way she can take a load off.
E-mail Joe. No massage necessary.
