If you don’t care for terrifically prolific cussing, walk away from your computer right now. This one is going to be a doozie! 😉
So, you guys know I love me a good massage. I live for them really. I’d marry a massage if I could. And I have an amazing therapist, Grayson, who rules the school. But before I met Grayson, I’d bought a Groupon for a 90-minute massage somewhere else and I got it today.
Upon arrival and meeting him, I told him that normally I’m pretty tough but that I was super sore from having to dump about 150 buckets of water away from my house’s foundation earlier in the week due to all the insane flooding. (Almost 6 inches of rain in less than 24 hours!) As such, I asked him to go super easy on me because everything hurt. He said to just let him know if the pressure was too much or too little and he’d adjust. So far, so good.
I strip, get up on the table, he comes in and the very first thing he does is push on my back SO FUCKING HARD that my poor boobies smash into the table (ummm…sir, the table is fucking hard and my DD boobs ain’t got nowhere to go). And that’s how the internal dialog began. Prepare yourself.
Action: Boob smashing
Internal Dialogue: WHAT THE SHIT! OUCH! Only a man who has no boobs would smash a woman who obviously has tremendous ta-tas into a table with the force of 3 gorillas. Dip shit.
Action: Digging his bony-ass fingers (similar in appearance and pain-dealing to the Grim Reaper’s) into what I’m pretty sure was bone and not muscle in my shoulder blade.
Internal Dialogue: FUCKING FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCK THAT HURTS!
External Dialogue: Can you please reduce the pressure you’re using. I’m quite sore from earlier this week and that hurts. I’d really appreciate it.
Result: Applied more pressure because I’m sure his internal dialogue was, “Fuck you lady, I do what I want.” (In the voice of Cartman from South Park, of course.)
Interim Action: 10 more minutes of excruciating pain from which there is no salvation.
Action: More digging of his pain-inflicting finger knives into the small of my back and around to my sides.
Internal Dialogue: YOU ARE FUCKING MASSAGING MY KIDNEYS! WHY? WHY GOD? WHY? OUCH. DIE YOU MOTHER FUCKER! DIE.
External Dialogue: Would you mind going lighter, please? Like I said, I’m really sore so I’m a bit more delicate than I’d usually be.
Result: Not only did he continue to massage my fucking kidneys through bone, muscle or whatever the fuck is between a kidney and your skin, I’m pretty sure he used a dull, rusty pocket knife to actually remove one. Possibly for sale on the black market.
Interim Action: 15 more minutes of, honest to God, abject misery. Shouldn’t a massage therapist inherently know that when their client is making a fist over and over again and making squeaky “I’m clearly dying” noises AND has asked him multiple times to use less pressure, that they should STOP FUCKING KILLING THEIR CLIENT????
Action: Uncovers the back of my thigh (which I specifically mentioned before we started was incredibly sore) and takes those daggers he calls fingers and starts strumming my hamstring like he’s playing the fiddle in The Devil Went Down to Georgia. Seriously, like the freedom of his soul depended on tearing out my hamstring and tying a bow with it.
Internal Dialog: THAT FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKING HURTS!!!! You Hitler mother fucker. Did you get your license JUST TO TORTURE people? Did you wake up this morning, throw a dart at your schedule and decide, “Yep, it’s Jodi Ambrose today. I’m going to make her wish she died in a violent car accident on her way here. Heh heh heh (insert creepy, evil laugh).”
External Dialog: Seriously, you gotta lighten up on me. Just pretend I’m an arthritic 90-year-old with osteoporosis and a low threshold for pain.
Result: NOT ONE MOTHER FUCKING OUNCE OF LESSENING UP ON THE HORROR!!!! Not even a little. NONE. WHAT THE EVER-LOVING FUCK?
Interim Action: More abject misery. Me trying to figure how to get the fuck outta there without jumping off the table and having my ta-tas flying all over the place and my ass shining up in the air. Me wishing his balls would rot off in a leprosy kind of way. Me wondering why in the hell I haven’t freaked out more on this fuckhead. Me thinking that somehow all this “deep tissue” fuckin’ nightmare will, in the end, be good for my aching muscles. Me praying for a meteor to fly down from Heaven and kill both him and me immediately (preferably just him, but I figure a meteor would be too big to target just him–I’d be collateral damage and I’d be okay with that).
Action: Asks me to flip over onto my back. Then asks me if I want my pectorals massaged.
Internal Dialog: If you even think of touching my tits I’m gonna fucking brain you with a hammer. You got that, old man? YOU FUCKIN’ HEAR ME??? I’LL KILL YOU AND YOUR WHOLE FAMILY!
External Dialog: No, thank you.
Result: I did not have to kill the mother fucker because he did not touch boobies. Hence, I am not covered in blood and being processed by the police. I think of that as a win/win.
So, finally, this God-forsaken nightmare comes to a close. I asked him no less than 8 times to ease up. He literally NEVER did until the last 5 minutes–I’m guessing because that’s when he’s starting to think about what kind of tip I’m going to give him and he wants to go out on a high note. Well, here’s a tip, you fuck-headed fuck fuck: Don’t ever let me see you crossing the street when I’m driving.
There’s my saga du jour. I was soooooo looking forward to getting all of my sore muscles rubbed out. Now I need a Vicodin and another massage to survive the one I just PAID GOOD MONEY to endure.
I’m going to go with pain being a character builder in order to find a silver lining. But in my deepest, darkest and not-so-private thoughts, all I can think is, “You are very fucking lucky that real life isn’t like that movie The Purge where murder is legal for a day. You’d be at the top of my list, fuck face.”
With that, I’m off to fry up a bagel and watch me some Project Runway!!
Have a great weekend everyone! 🙂 XOXOXO