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TALES FROM THE MASSAGE TABLE: How I gambled and lost

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Despite what this title might suggest I did not accidentally shit on the massage table. 
Sometimes I ask Hubby to rub my shoulders and he does it so poorly
that I end up begging him to stop.  He acts surprised like he thought he
was doing a good job but I know it’s his master plan to never have to
give a back rub longer than 60 seconds. He sent me to get a massage
yesterday because I’ve been complaining about major neck and shoulder
pain.  Apparently lifting 30lbs up and down three flights of stairs all
day isn’t that great for your upper body.  I would have really
appreciated a stair-lift but hey, you take what you can get, right?

I
had a total of 60 minutes before Miss P. would be up from her nap
looking for me so I cheated on my go-to, affordable Bodywaves
Therapeutic Massage in the North End of Boston and went down the street
to a no-name spa instead.  In the words of Vivian Ward: “Big Mistake. 
Huge.”

Right when I walked into the room the woman asked
me a question that I don’t even remember.  But I guess my answer had
the word “masseuse” in it because she interrupted me to tell me that the
correct term is “massage THERAPIST.”  Whatever lady, I didn’t make you
call me a domestic engineer did I?  Give me a break.  I laid down on the
bed and tried to “let go” but the sheets were so cold it hurt my
boobs.  So I tried to focus on the music but quickly realized it was old
Christmas songs without lyrics.  The worst.  Plus It’s February for
Christ’s sake.  (I think that pun was intended.)  She starts the massage
and her hands are so dry they scratch my skin.  I didn’t ask for an
exfoliation.   And then she starts talking…and talking…and talking. 
I was giving her one word mumbled responses to try and make an obvious point to  no avail.  What I
wanted to remind her is that she wasn’t an ACTUAL therapist and to stop
asking me about my childhood.  It was a 60 minute massage.  40 of those
excruciating minutes were spent on one knot in the center of my back. 
Sure, that knot is gone but 4 more cropped up in protest.  I should have stayed home, tied a sack of potatoes around my torso and asked Hubby to rub my shoulders while I marched up and down the stairs.  It would have made for a much nicer experience. 

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