I gave E a couple’s massage package for Valentine’s Day. We finally managed to make the appointment this past weekend, due to E’s travel schedule and limited weekend appointments at this particular salon.
Now, our self pampering experience is limited to a hot stone massage and facial (oh, shut up) combo we enjoyed during a Spring Break cruise a few months ago. Although the experience was absolutely divine, it was hella expensive – around $360 with tip. I’m a cheap bitch so I’ll just massage whatever I can reach on myself for free. Sometimes it’s even enjoyable. I also have about six different facial masks under my vanity. I can slather that shit on my face every night if I so wish and it’s pretty inexpensive, depending on which mask I choose. I may be popping my nerve pills like Tic Tacs due to stress and tension and my skin may be a bit oily but I have $360 more in the bank, baby.
The package I purchased at this local salon was for a deep tissue massage, which instantly had E second guessing my decision every time we’d talk about the appointment. He was really hung up on the words “deep” and “tissue”. I’d tell him to man up and quit being a pussy. How rough could a massage be? Geesh. Then he’d tell me about an “unexpected business trip” once again that would derail our appointment.
Deep Tissue Massage Day finally arrived. As we were getting ready, E asked me if a “happy ending” was included or if we had to pay extra. I told him that at our age, just getting home safely after the massage so we could take a nap was a happy ending.
We arrived at the salon and met the owners, a lovely couple. We were told to get undressed and get under the sheets on the table. Mrs. Masseuse pointed out her table and I scrambled up onto it. My deep tissue was not going to be massaged by foreign man hands. E reluctantly and with many sighs climbed onto Mr. Masseuse’s table, yammering unhappily about not looking forward to his virgin deep tissue being handled by a man. Mr. and Mrs. Masseuse apparently stood outside and limbered up their fingers, mainlined steroids and shotgunned Red Bull because when they entered the room, it was fucking ON.
The stereo was turned on and the room filled with music about being one with the Earth. I shit you not. Before I could acclimate my resistant brain to the hippie music, hands were laid on me and not in the Pentecostal way. There was no warm-up, no foreplay, and certainly not any comforting, hot, smooth stones in sight, much less being laid gently on my back. My deep tissue was being violated in ways it had never known until then. It was intense but I did my best to relax and just enjoy it as much as possible, telling myself that my deep tissue probably deserved it and needed to be roughed up a bit.
The first clue I had that E was not himself was when he didn’t talk. I had to answer all the questions about our kids, our vacations, our summer plans, etc. Most of you probably know that I’m the mouth in this marriage but E can carry a conversation without me and he loves to talk to new people. I pretty much replied to everything asked and talked about for the entire hour.
The next clue I had that E was resisting the deep tissue tough love was when he asked Mr. Masseuse with a pained wince, “What is that?” Mr. Masseuse said, “That’s your Mouse Knot.” We learned that a Mouse Knot is found in almost everyone who works at a desk and on a computer on a daily basis. Apparently, E has the largest Mouse Knot in the world because Mr. Masseuse spent a lot of time working that little fucker out. E replied that he’d never felt it before and didn’t even know it was there. That was a mistake. Mr. Masseuse pressed E’s Mouse Knot even harder to make his point and said “Feel it now”? E
whimpered replied that he indeed did feel it then.
The final clue that E and his deep tissue had reached critical mass was his uncontrollable, audible gasps and I don’t mean gasping in an “I’m really enjoying this shit” kind of way. I kept my eyes tightly closed because I didn’t want to see the death ray glare I was sure E was aiming at me. Later, I realized there would have been no death ray glare because E’s deep tissue had said “Fuck it, I quit this bitch” so he couldn’t move his neck anyway.
Our hour was up and Mr. and Mrs. Masseuse left the room so we could get dressed. I stayed on the table, feeling like a wet noodle. I turned my head (I, unlike E, still had that function) to see if E was basking in the relaxation as I was. He had managed to turn over onto his side to give me a delayed death ray glare plus the middle finger. All I got for the next couple minutes as he coerced his body into getting vertical all at the same time was the middle finger.
When E finally spoke to me and put down his middle finger, he asked “Can you pull up the navigation on your phone?” When I asked why, he said, “To find a spleen store because I no longer fucking have one!” I started laughing so hard, I had to sit down on the bench where our clothes were folded and waiting for our newly beaten-into-shape deep tissue. As E shuffled slowly by me in his underwear to go into the bathroom he said “I’ll be in there pissing blood.”
As soon as we were safely in our SUV, I handed E some Motrin. He shuddered and said “Do you know how it feels to have two hairy man arms running up and down your back? I do now.” I suggested that we console E’s deep tissue and homophobia with some gourmet cookies from a place I’d heard was awesome. We then headed home and slept for two hours. I only got the middle finger maybe another dozen times for the rest of the day.
I woke up late the next morning with sore upper shoulders but that was it. E had to leave the house at around 4 a.m. to travel to Seattle on a business trip with extremely angry deep tissue that was no longer speaking to him. Although I can’t see him giving me the middle finger over the phone, I know it’s there. I can sense it. I think the few days apart will do me and his middle finger good.
In the meantime, our anniversary is next month. I think the suggested gift for 24th wedding anniversaries is a deep tissue massage. I mean, surely he’ll be pissing normal urine again by August. And besides, who needs a spleen anyway?