Let's just get this minor detail out of the way right now ... I went through 36+ years of life without ever getting a massage.
I know. I KNOW.
The thing is that it just doesn't appeal to me to pay money for the privilege of doing nothing. I can do that for free without even leaving my couch. I'm really very bad at doing nothing anyway, so the concept of paying for it is a colossal waste of funds I never seem to have.
But Harley Davidson offered to pay for a massage at the hotel spa while I was at their offices learning how to ride a motorcycle. (More about that later, but I will say this much--sponsored trips are THE VERY BEST.) When it's someone else's money and they have it all scheduled and I seem to be the only one who is all, "Uh, no thank you" I manage to wimp out and go along with the plan.
I knew within two seconds of going into that room it was a mistake. "Disrobe as much as you're comfortable doing," was quite the hint. I mean, I knew about that part of the whole process, but I had forgotten.
Thank goodness I was wearing half decent underwear. For once.
Then I discovered that my entire life has been a lie. I laid down on that table and put my head where it belonged and realized I wouldn't be able to see Phoebe's feet. I swear to you that Friends taught me that you could see the floor when you were getting a massage, but IT WAS ALL A LIE.
If Friends lied to me about that, what else did it lie about? Is all of my dinosaur knowledge fiction? Does "going commando" not mean what I think it means? Is Joey not really dumb? I AM SO CONFUSED.
Anyway, there was another thing that happened when I laid down that pretty much ranks as the worst thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life. To explain that, though, I have to back up a bit.
So, it turns out I'm allergic to Tennessee. I wasn't the last time I went down there, but somehow, the past few years have led to bad, bad things. Within 24 hours of setting foot in the state, my eyes were more bloodshot than Jeff Reed's after a bender, my ears were trying to murder me with their pain and achiness, I was contemplating how to fit a fork down my throat so I could scratch it, my chest seemed to be packing an entire suitcase filled with congestion, and my nose. OH MY HEAVENS. MY NOSE.
It was running so fast and so furious that I thought it was a Kenyan training for an Olympic marathon. It ran and it ran and it ran and it ran and IT WAS SO GROSS.
But then I went and got on an airplane to go to Milwaukee. Bad things happen when someone who is about to die from an allergic reaction to the state of Tennessee gets on a plane. VERY BAD THINGS. All of the goop and ick froze up right where it was. It was like I had a very large breast implant filled with snot stuck inside my head. It was slowly oozing around and jiggling and being all sorts of perky, but it wasn't leaving. It was just stuck there.
Until I laid down on that massage table. That was when the ooze started to slowly move forward. Which, WOAH. It is SO not fun when a giant pile of crap oozes its way around in your head and chest and rests on your sinuses.
I seriously thought I was going to suffocate as the lady not-named Phoebe did her thing.
Fortunately(?), the oozing eventually found its way to my nose and started threatening to drip. I so very badly didn't want to start leaking right then and there, so I spent ten minutes of my life focussed solely on convincing ooze to stay put in my head.
But then the lady not-named Phoebe went for my legs.
AND I DIED.
I forgot to take a razor with me on the trip. I don't really care whether I shave my legs or not most of the time, but she had to get all sorts of up close and comfortable and I was very much so worried that she was going to slice her hands up.
It's really hard to concentrate on not leaking while you try to mentally force your leg hair to retreat. It's sort of a recipe for failure.
To the lady not-named Phoebe, I'm sorry. I'M SO VERY SORRY. You shouldn't have to see (OR TOUCH, MY GOODNESS) things like that. I would have explained to you how very sorry I was at the time, but I was suffocating.
I think I can now say for certain that massages are most definitely not my thing.
