I still have about a hundred dollars in my flex spending account for the year, money I need to use or lose before January. Since I tend to be Ms. Frugality, you can imagine how I feel about potentially forfeiting my own money at the turn of the year.
As a result, I’ve been coming up with creative ways to use it. I’ve stockpiled vitamins and calcium tablets. I went to the dermatologist for a basic body check to make sure none of my moles was cancerous. And last night I got a massage.
Let’s just agree: if my receipt for this massage gets approved for reimbursement, I’m going to kick myself for not figuring this out sooner. I LOVE massages.
Last night’s massage was delivered by Stephanie, a recent graduate of the Potomac Massage Training Institute. Despite her new credentials, she was one of the best masseuses I’ve had work on me.
The only trouble I have during massages is that I can’t really turn off my thoughts until near the end. I spend the first 30 minutes chastising myself with phrases like, “Relax and enjoy this! Pay attention! Don’t let your mind wander! Be in the moment!”
Then, I shift into “mental interview” mode, where I suddenly think of about 80 things I’d like to know but decide not to ask. Such as:
- I wonder what part of the body she likes rubbing the best.
- I wonder if someone’s feet have ever stunk so badly she skipped them.
- I wonder if my armpits have stubble. And if so, if she is willing herself not to throw up.
- I wonder what percentage of people get totally naked for their massages.
- I wonder if most men get erections during massages.
- I wonder if her hands hurt.
- I wonder what the longest amount of time is that someone could give a continuous massage.
- I wonder if anything really gross has ever happened – like someone peeing on the table.
- I wonder if she appreciates that I don’t have back-ne. (bacne?)
And then, for the last ten minutes, I shift into “Premature Mourning” mode, where I start lamenting how quickly the hour went (while she is still rubbing me) and try to silently will her into going into overtime on me.
It’s weird: while I walk out of a massage physically relaxed, the entire hour of rubbing itself provokes more mental stress than – say – trying to understand how Sarah Palin was able to write a book that involves words. I’m not exactly sure what it means, but I’m pretty sure Buddah would thump me for that. Which actually might feel pretty good…
pithypants 
“Is it over yet? How about now? Is this the last body part to be rubbed?” I know how you feel.
You MUST watch Head Case, season one, disc 1, episode 3 or 4 for best massage joke ever.