Tuesday, February 11, 2014

The I'm-Pretty-Sure-I-Didn't-Cup-His-Balls Massage Experience (First World Problems)

4 COOOOOOMMENTS! Now you speak up!
I have no time. I really don't. My time is at an utmost premium now. If I have some time when the baby is asleep, or out with Daddy for a bit, I need to plan for it, schedule it, and maximize the hell out of it.

Phone calls and Skype are sheer luxury. I decided to just call my Mom and Dad to chat the other day, despite an unhappy baby, and I moved into the next room. (Don't worry, the Hubs was with her, I didn't actually abandon her and leave her with the dogs or anything). And she crawled for real for the first time. That's what happens when I step away. I miss important things with my baby.

I digress.

So, after much planning, thinking, hoping and aching (muscles, not loins, people), I scheduled an evening massage so that the Hubs would be home with Baby D, and I could go get some of this I'm-tired-and-slumpy posture pain, neck pain, back pain, and general muscle blah-ness revitalized.

I had to book two weeks ahead. The anticipation was killing me. I even booked with a DUDE, on the advice of my chiropractor (also a luxury - my last appointment consisted of both her and I trying to calm the baby's cries, as I rocked her in the car seat with one outstretched arm while the chiro TRIED to adjust me). I think I left feeling worse.

So, onto the massage. A wispy guy, quite thin (WARNING SIGN - how's this dude going to beat the hell out of me sufficiently?) greeted me and we proceeded to the treatment room.

Now, I am fat. It's true. I'm still 50 pounds heavier than the day I found out I was pregnant. I will detail another post on that in the future, but let's just say anyone around me appreciates a dimly lit room. Especially when even XL underwear can't contain my crack and all-that-is the junk in my trunk.

Nope, this dude preferred intense fluorescent light. Okay.

Tucks the sheet into said underwear. We both know my crack is still hanging out, looking to make small talk. Epic. With every sweeping motion on my back, I can feel my love handles and butt just bouncing about.

It was mixed parts I-feel-so-gross-I-want-to-curl-up-and-disappear and... no, actually it was pretty much just that.

It was all soft and Swedish-like. I am a masochist at heart and I need lots of pressure and knots to be WORKED OUT, MAWFAHCKAH. This dude felt like he was swiffering my fat. I asked for more pressure. He didn't really change anything.

Within the first 10 minutes, I nearly cried. I waited and looked forward to this so badly. I needed some pain relief. I was about to lose an hour of my baby-free time on a sad, pathetic massage. I wanted to just ask him to stop, say let's forget it, but the cheapskate in me knew that I'd have to pay either way. So I laid there, bummed to the max (both literally and figuratively) and hoped it would improve.

It did not. It got worse.

This guy had no hand rest below the face-holder hole. So I put my arms at my sides. The table left little room for my arms (or rather, my wide torso left little room for my arms). And that's when I'm sure it happened. As he was leaning in to do his trademark swiffer move, I'm quite sure that his junk landed squarely in my upturned right palm.

I told myself I'm sure I'm just imagining. Just relax. And it probably isn't considered cheating on the Hubs if there is both sheet and pants-protection between my palm and the dude's junk. Amirite?

Then it happened again.

I actually felt revolted and full body shuddered. He stopped swiffering and asked if I was okay. I said yes and tried to glue my arms and hands to the sides of my body. You know, total relaxation.

I shouldn't really be surprised, considering my track record. I blogged about some bad experiences back in the day on this post here, and also on this one.

Before the massage started, I had asked if he could massage hips. I know some therapists aren't comfortable because it usually means manipulating stuff through your butt cheeks. He asked why they were hurting and I said mostly from carrying the baby in a carrier.

Well, throughout we had a definite language barrier. This became painfully clear when he massaged my MUFFIN TOP. I guess he thought that was my hips? Jesus I just wanted him to stop and go away. No woman needs to feel her muffin top moving around like that. That ACKNOWLEDGMENT of the fat there. No, let's all pretend there is nothing to see here, and move on!

Ahhh, anyway, after the longest time it was finally over. And to just sweeten the experience, as I was getting dressed afterwards, I had to use my typical force to get my too-small jeans over my too-quickly-expanding arse. The ultimate feel good wave rushed over me as the belt loop I was gripping ACTUALLY RIPPED OUT of my jeans, unable to overthrow the force of my arse-resistance.

I left the room to pay, head hanging in shame and defeat.

I wish I looked this good...

But not before two (new, wrapped) super-plus tampons fell out of my purse, in front of the two older men in the waiting room. What's that you ask? Why, yes, I *DID* stomp on them as I fumbled for my credit card! No, no I *DIDN'T* realize what they were or that they were mine until one of the men wouldn't meet my gaze as I said hello and I happened to look down and see them.

Gawd, I feel so attractive right now.... Pass me another Coke. And I seem to be craving muffins now, too.....


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