Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Asian Massage

Here’s a little secret: Josh and I like to get massages from the Asian’s at the mall. You know…the annoying ones with the chairs in the middle of the walkway, who beg you to stop while you walk by.

We usually go when Josh gets home from being on the road and he needs a little relaxing. So off we went Monday night to our Opry Mills date night. We don’t do dinner and a movie. We do dinner and Asian massages. And yes, I’m aware of how bad that sounds.

I never get more than a 22 minute massage, while Josh usually goes a little longer.

I sit down in the chair, and they whip out their sign with the length of time and price. I point to what I want, and they inevitably attempt to convince me that won’t be long enough. It’s the little dance we do. I secretly wonder what they would do if I picked the longest one on there. Is there a back up sign they’d whip out with more choices?

The first time I went, I made the mistake of asking if I should take off my sweatshirt. I got a quick ‘No, no no!!’ The guy even took a step back and shook his head and arms. What the heck did he think I was gonna do?! Strip in the middle of Opry Mills? Now I take it off without asking.

I always spend the first 5 minutes convincing them I will only be getting 22 minutes, and they pretend they don’t understand and keep saying ‘forty five, yes?’ I finally get to lay my head down, and let out a relaxing breath.

He starts on my back because I don’t let them touch my head. I let them rub my head once, and I’m pretty sure part of my brain got squished.

Once your head is on the chair, the talking among them begins. And the laughing. I can only imagine what they’re saying to each other.

‘This girl crazy.’

‘I see butt crack.’

They make a point of yanking the back of your shirt down to cover any exposed skin, and tuck it into your belt. They yank your shirt down with such authority that I feel like I did something inappropriate. ‘Shame on you for exposing your skin with your short shirt.’ I almost feel like apologizing.

This particular time, after about 5 minutes, of what I would assume is the ‘warm up’, the guy taps my shoulder and I lean my head up.

‘You need tirty-five min. Muscles.’

Me: ‘Muscles, what? What are my muscles?”

He starts adamantly pointing at my upper arms and saying ‘Muscles, muscles.’

Me: ‘Yes, those are my muscles. What about them? No, I do not want 35 minutes.’

‘But your muscle sfpsdiohin’.

Me: 'Huh?' (Glancing over at Josh who is quietly enjoying his massage and pretending he can't hear.)

‘Your muscle sfhdlksh.’

Me: ‘No, I still want only 22 minutes.’

‘I give you forty-five for tirty dolla.’

(Normally 35 minutes is $30).

Me: (Seeing an opportunity.) ‘Well how much would 35 minutes be?”

‘Tirty dollas.”

Me: ‘Nope.” Head down, discussion over.

I’m pretty sure that’s when he decided to hurt me. I let out a little yelp. He didn’t seem to care. It was a long 15 minutes. He ended with rubbing my temples and I had the sneaking suspicion he was trying to get me to pass out.

Oh, and when he released me and I sat there waiting for Josh to finish, he tried to convince me I needed a foot massage. When I declined, he laughed like ‘yeah, I didn’t think you’d fall for that one, but I had to try.’

Then, he asked me how much my engagement ring cost. And told me he was beautiful. Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just punish me for only getting 22 minutes. Like we were friends or something.

I couldn’t walk the next day. I limped around the office, felt dizzy, and stairs were NOT an option. I left work early feeling sick.

I’d like to say I will never go back, but I will. Next time, I’m getting 45 minutes though, so we can be friends. And so I won’t be paralyzed.

1 comment:

  1. Oh that story was so much more snarky and ironic in writing. : ) you need to do this more often. Blogging, not the massage. I don't think I would recommend that. :)