I don’t think I can tell Tate that his birthday gift to me was a little, uh, torturous. I’m quite sure there’s a bruise in the shape of a thumbprint at the base of my skull as a result of the
massacre massage I received on Saturday.
It’s been so hard not to complain about the massage. Complainer is my middle name (Jennifer Complainer Playgroupie). Telling him that the massage therapist was quite possibly a masochist would certainly make him feel that his birthday gift to me was a waste.
It wasn’t a COMPLETE waste. My toes look fabulous from my pedicure. That’s something, at least.
So it all started innocently enough, right. She was a small, friendly-seeming woman. I was greeted with a smile and a lovely pat on the back. Then, I was led to the
torture chamber massage room.
I didn’t see the vise grips. I had no idea they were coming. She must have had some way of removing her human hands and replacing them with these steel-embedded torture devices.
How does one little woman have that type of super-human strength? How did she think that this deep pressure was relaxing? How did she not notice my gripping the table for dear life?
I did ask her to be more gentle. Apparently our definitions of “gentle” varied. Widely.
I thought of screaming for help, but I feared the repercussions of her vise grips while waiting for help to arrive.
Throughout the massage, I kept my eyes tightly shut, for if I opened them, I knew I’d see a woman dressed in a black rubber suit donning metal studs and a ball gag.
There were a few instances that I enjoyed the massage. Especially the part when she was all finished.
It’s now been almost 48 hours since
my release from the pits of hell the massage ended. I’m so sore, my muscles in my neck and back ache. Even my skin is sensitive to the touch. Showering is painful. Hopefully I can hold out and let Tate continue to think that I thoroughly enjoyed my massage.
After this, I can handle a few labor pains. At least when you’re in labor they’ll give you an epidural.