Blogging in E minor
Usually just a bunch of silly crap.

Beware of Orange Girls Bearing Gift Certificates: Our His and Hers Anniversary Massage Experience

As an awesome conclusion to a three-day 15th Anniversary celebration, my wife set up His and Hers massages for our sensual amusement. True to her nature, she had done so only after having obtained a coupon.

            Upon our arrival at the newly constructed resort office strip, we were greeted by a cute receptionist who asked us to follow her to the relaxation room, then presented us each with a clipboard, a pen and several pages of forms.

            Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything relaxing about this situation. The room was just a little waiting area, with a few modern art fixtures and a fancy refrigerator that displayed bottled water as if it were, in fact, part of the decor. Furthermore, there is nothing more offensive to me than filling out paperwork on a weekend. In staunch defiance, I determined exactly what I absolutely had to fill out, namely the medical info and the release, and skipped the rest. I also detected from the nature of the questions a plot to obtain personal info from me that would lead to their targeting me with future marketing schemes. I wasn’t about to leave myself open to that!

            “Your therapists will be with you shortly,” Miss Cute-in-the-Tight-Little-Stretchy-Pants told us.

            Therapists? The last time somebody said that to us my wife and I were living at separate addresses and our daughter had a toothbrush at each. Mind you, the word “therapists” is comprised of “the” and “rapists.”  And these people would be touching us?

            Suddenly, I was beginning to have doubts as to the awesomeness of this lark.

            After a brief wait, the so-called therapists greeted us. Neither was the stereotypical masseuse I had envisioned, something along the order of a tall, leggy Swede with melonesque boobs popping out of her top. Instead, they appeared more like somebody who would show up at your house to sell you lawn care services, both dressed identically in kaki slacks and a green polo shirt embroidered with the spa logo.

            And I found it rather chucklesome that each were “armed” with a squirt bottles of oil that they wore upon low-slung belts around their hips. I suppose if a massage therapist had to be armed with something, it should be a bottle of massage oil.

            They took us to a pair of dimly lit adjacent rooms with the partition between them pulled open. Yanni-esque, John-Tesh-like new age music hummed quietly in the background. My therapist, who had a very professional demeanor, asked me a few medical-related questions, if there were any areas I wanted her to focus on, and what I expected from the massage.

            “I’m just along for the ride,” I replied. 

            We were instructed to strip down to our “comfort level,” lie face down on the tables and stick our faces into these padded hoop things protruding from the ends. They left us briefly to disrobe. In the context of having my wife in the next room and a non-hot woman touching me, comfort level meant down to my drawers. If Inga had been present, things might have possibly been more interesting. ; )

            Upon the return of the therapists, we enjoyed a very soothing 50-minute experience. However, it was not what I had expected. I had envisioned devil’s food cake with vanilla icing and nuts and chocolate shavings and fudge drizzled on top; what I got was granola. In other words, I was anticipating something entirely pleasurable. As it turned out, I got something that was healthy, therapeutic and good-for-me. My therapist’s powerful hands worked me over rigorously and, at certain times, it was borderline painful.

            A few smart-ass comments that came to mind but had chosen not say:

                 * That foot doesn’t come off. It’s permanently attached.

                 * Is that supposed to feel like the Vulcan Death Grip?

                 * It would be easier to extract a kidney if you used a knife.

                 * Have you ever pulled somebody’s finger out of socket?

                 * My cat does that because she thinks she’ll get milk out of me.

                 * What happens if you break a rib? Does that waiver allow you to bust me up at-will.

                 * If you want to remove that leg, you’ll need to pull the release pin that’s up my ass.

            I was reminded of all the times I jumped up screaming while my wife massaged me: “Why are you trying to hurt me? You might as well get a crowbar and shove it into my eyeballs!” Instead, I decided just to go with it, trusting that this therapist person was well trained and knew what she was doing, unlike my wife. Speaking of her, I had noticed that there was no sound whatsoever coming from that side of the room. I had to look up a couple of times just to make sure that they hadn’t wheeled her off somewhere to harvest organs. And the Yanni Tesh Pan Pipes Experience played on . . . .

            In seemingly no time at all, my therapist stopped abruptly and announced that our time was done. My wife was stirring about on the other side as well.

            In stark contrast to my expectations of feeling like a wet, sleepy noodle upon completion, I felt refreshed and ready to go. All the little kinks and nearly imperceptible tings and aches were gone. My muscles were flush with blood and my joints had a freshly cracked sensation. I felt like a newly tuned piano! (as if I have any idea what a piano would feel like). However, I was disappointed that neither my chest nor my abdomen was worked.

            As we prepared to leave, I noticed that my wife and everybody else who was leaving had impressions on their faces from the padded “facial stirrups” that were attached to the tables. It reminded me of Ash Wednesday, the day Catholics go about their business with dirty foreheads.

            Of course, in predictable fashion, Miss Stretchy Pants attempted to sell us a membership to the spa on our way out. “Todays massages will be free if you join now!” she said.

            She got out brochures with grids that displayed several levels of memberships and many types of services. It was all very complex. I have found that whenever there are multiple axes to the membership structure, it is usually best to decline – lesson learned from all those gym memberships, cell phone plans, record clubs, cable subscriptions, usw.

*Bonus advice: Tight pants, cleavage and/or excessively orange skin on the attractive girl trying to sell you the membership should serve as additional warning signs.*

Though we both agreed that an occasional massage during a particularly stressful week would hit the spot, my wife and I saw no need to foster a massage addiction.

            On the ride home I recalled a time, during the week leading up to Thanksgiving one year, that I got a haircut from an “alternate girl” when my regular was out on leave. She was a rookie, working slowly and deliberately, lightly touching my scalp as she combed through my hair. It was one of the most pleasurable, stress-relieving experiences of my life. And that only cost me $20 and a tip.

            Perhaps I should trust my wife’s massage abilities and allow her to hurt me more frequently (I’ll just hide the crowbar in advance). It’s cheaper and she’s not shy about touching my chest and abdomen. Nevertheless, kudos to her on a fantastic anniversary gift idea!

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One Response to “Beware of Orange Girls Bearing Gift Certificates: Our His and Hers Anniversary Massage Experience”

  1. Awesome post! Sounds like fun, but also sounds like you might wanna try a better spa 🙂 Try “Breath of Life” in Clayton – the lady who owns it is a very good personal (Pagan) friend of mine and knows how to really “connect” with her clients.
    Oily hugs,
    Moon…who very much needs a massage herself


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