Massage in a Bottle
Hey, guys, how are you? Good! Kevin, heard that rash is clearing up. Adam, heard the guilt you're feeling about giving that rash to Kevin is clearing up. Good. Good.
So, in my lifetime, I've had two massages. The first one was paid for by the government, via the Baldwin-Wallace College Health Center which provides the fine service of allowing students to pass on food for a week and instead use their parents' and community's hard-earned money on a rubdown. It's a lot like L.A. Anyway, just yesterday, I had my second massage. But I guess that story doesn't work unless you know the full story of the first.
FLASHBACK...
The year is 2005. A bright-eyed young troubadour named Shawn is skipping to the B-W Health Center for his scheduled massage. I enter the room, where the older gentleman masseuse tells me to get ready and leaves the room. I strip down, save my boxers, and get under the sheets. The massage is delightful, the music is more relaxing than Bjork stoned, and the temperature is an exhaustingly balmy 90 degrees or so. As I'm laying face down, about halfway through the massage, I either fall asleep or pass out, because the next thing I know the masseuse is telling me he's done and is leaving the room for me to change back.
So I open my eyes and feel a little dizzy and bring my head back and notice that the towel I was just resting my darling head upon is a dark red...IT'S COVERED WITH BLOOD!!! BLOOOOOOD!!!!!!! I freak out for a second and discover that my nose has started bleeding. And not baby drops of blood, like what Chris Matthews gave Ellen, but GUSHING from my nose. So I wipe up what I can and, not wanting to look like a massage idiot, I start pulling out tissues one by one, holding them to my nose and wishing it would stop. Well, about five minutes later, it's still going, and the masseuse knocks and I ask for a couple more minutes, because apparently it takes me an epoch to put pants on. Finally, the bleeding stops and I get my clothes back on, leaving the room practically clean, except for a garbage can now LITERALLY filled with bloody tissues, as if I cut up a dead body and stuffed it in there. As I leave, all I can think is, "Wow, I hope he does not look in that garbage can."
FLASH-FORWARD TO YESTERDAY...
Back on my horse, I dare attempt to get another massage. This place in Wicker Park has them for $45 if you schedule in advance - not a bad deal. So I'm calm and ready, wearing probably the same boxers from college, hoping my nose doesn't bleed it up again.
My masseuse is Ricardo, an older gentleman who is, yes, more awkward than Clint Howard playing opposite Russell Crowe. He looks at the form I fill out (as a first-timer) and sees my job description as Copywriter. "Oh," he says, "So you write copy?"
I nod.
He takes me to a room in the back and says I could leave my "briefs" on, but if I'm wearing something like saggy boxers, to just take them off. So I get...shhhhh...naked...and I lie on the bed in waiting. He returns and I put my face down through the sheet. He starts the massage and I'm about as tense as I've ever been. Between thinking about life and sniffling, worried that my nose is about to bleed profusely if I fall asleep, my muscles are insanely tense. So, as Ricardo rubs my arm, he leans in and whispers...
"Just think of yourself as a bag filled with wet sand."
And, when that doesn't work, he whispers again...
"Just think of yourself as a rag doll filled with...wet sand."
Okay, I wanna know what toy store Ricardo shops at, because now, not only can I not stop sniffling, but I can't stop laughing. He continues to tell me to remain "floppy" and, I believe, "flopsy" and "Fergalicious" as well. And then he goes, as rough as possible, all over my body, eventually going down to my legs. He folds the blanket over half of my body and lifts my exposed leg backwards into the air - you know, so all of my rag doll parts can sag out. And he bends the leg backwards, practically around my neck, and, bear in mind I'm about as flexible as a steel pipe, it feels like it's going to snap.
He finally finishes and I go to the waiting room while my friend who came with me finishes up. As I wait, Ricardo goes up to a girl sitting next to me; she's his next client. She stands up and he asks (which he did not ask me), "So how do you want your massage? Rough? Soft? Medium?"
She replies, "Oh, I like it REALLY hard."
And he looks back. "That's my specialty."
So, in my lifetime, I've had two massages. The first one was paid for by the government, via the Baldwin-Wallace College Health Center which provides the fine service of allowing students to pass on food for a week and instead use their parents' and community's hard-earned money on a rubdown. It's a lot like L.A. Anyway, just yesterday, I had my second massage. But I guess that story doesn't work unless you know the full story of the first.
FLASHBACK...
The year is 2005. A bright-eyed young troubadour named Shawn is skipping to the B-W Health Center for his scheduled massage. I enter the room, where the older gentleman masseuse tells me to get ready and leaves the room. I strip down, save my boxers, and get under the sheets. The massage is delightful, the music is more relaxing than Bjork stoned, and the temperature is an exhaustingly balmy 90 degrees or so. As I'm laying face down, about halfway through the massage, I either fall asleep or pass out, because the next thing I know the masseuse is telling me he's done and is leaving the room for me to change back.
So I open my eyes and feel a little dizzy and bring my head back and notice that the towel I was just resting my darling head upon is a dark red...IT'S COVERED WITH BLOOD!!! BLOOOOOOD!!!!!!! I freak out for a second and discover that my nose has started bleeding. And not baby drops of blood, like what Chris Matthews gave Ellen, but GUSHING from my nose. So I wipe up what I can and, not wanting to look like a massage idiot, I start pulling out tissues one by one, holding them to my nose and wishing it would stop. Well, about five minutes later, it's still going, and the masseuse knocks and I ask for a couple more minutes, because apparently it takes me an epoch to put pants on. Finally, the bleeding stops and I get my clothes back on, leaving the room practically clean, except for a garbage can now LITERALLY filled with bloody tissues, as if I cut up a dead body and stuffed it in there. As I leave, all I can think is, "Wow, I hope he does not look in that garbage can."
FLASH-FORWARD TO YESTERDAY...
Back on my horse, I dare attempt to get another massage. This place in Wicker Park has them for $45 if you schedule in advance - not a bad deal. So I'm calm and ready, wearing probably the same boxers from college, hoping my nose doesn't bleed it up again.
My masseuse is Ricardo, an older gentleman who is, yes, more awkward than Clint Howard playing opposite Russell Crowe. He looks at the form I fill out (as a first-timer) and sees my job description as Copywriter. "Oh," he says, "So you write copy?"
I nod.
He takes me to a room in the back and says I could leave my "briefs" on, but if I'm wearing something like saggy boxers, to just take them off. So I get...shhhhh...naked...and I lie on the bed in waiting. He returns and I put my face down through the sheet. He starts the massage and I'm about as tense as I've ever been. Between thinking about life and sniffling, worried that my nose is about to bleed profusely if I fall asleep, my muscles are insanely tense. So, as Ricardo rubs my arm, he leans in and whispers...
"Just think of yourself as a bag filled with wet sand."
And, when that doesn't work, he whispers again...
"Just think of yourself as a rag doll filled with...wet sand."
Okay, I wanna know what toy store Ricardo shops at, because now, not only can I not stop sniffling, but I can't stop laughing. He continues to tell me to remain "floppy" and, I believe, "flopsy" and "Fergalicious" as well. And then he goes, as rough as possible, all over my body, eventually going down to my legs. He folds the blanket over half of my body and lifts my exposed leg backwards into the air - you know, so all of my rag doll parts can sag out. And he bends the leg backwards, practically around my neck, and, bear in mind I'm about as flexible as a steel pipe, it feels like it's going to snap.
He finally finishes and I go to the waiting room while my friend who came with me finishes up. As I wait, Ricardo goes up to a girl sitting next to me; she's his next client. She stands up and he asks (which he did not ask me), "So how do you want your massage? Rough? Soft? Medium?"
She replies, "Oh, I like it REALLY hard."
And he looks back. "That's my specialty."