Today I had a massage. A looonnnngggg massage.
Now, I really, really do NOT like to be touched - unless you mean it.
I'm not a hugger, not a pat-on-the-backer, practically homicidal when someone invades my personal space.
But DAMN I needed a massage. My shoulders have been hunched up around my ears for two weeks.
So I booked some time with a lovely, effeminate - but strong - boy at the local day spa. Back in December this same boy 'serviced' me during our Annual Anniversary Couples Massage.
Today he spends an hour on my shoulders - all forearms and elbows, nearly making me cry.
In a good way.
But you know me, I can't relax - it is a physical impossibility. So I chatter away the whole time, "Who is easier to work on, men or women?" "Is it more difficult for you to work on fat people?" "Don't you get really tired by the end of the day? Should I have made an earlier appointment?"
Yada. Yada. Yada.
So he finishes with my back and has me flip over. As I'm doing so I ask, "So am I left handed or right handed?" Thinking it is obvious based on which side has more knots.
He responds, "You know, I can't really tell. You could be left-handed but sleep on your right side. Or you could be right-handed but cradle the phone between your left ear and shoulder. It's hard to say."
I acknowledge that I'd never thought of that - he makes an excellent point.
Oh, but he doesn't stop there. He continues:
"So, you know, as far as I can tell, you really don't have a good side."
To which I HAD to respond:
"Oh, honey, you aren't the first man to tell me he can't find my good side."
He didn't say much after that.
Do you think he'll remember me when I go back next month? Bless him.