Alllllllright. Let's, for a moment, forget the pretentious implications of getting a massage in the first place, and instead focus on the recipient of a gift certificate for one (1) massage, and the events that took place on the day she chose to redeem said certificate. It's important that you come with me on this journey, and not judge me along the way.
Here's how it went down. I had been thinking about when to cash in on this Christmas present for some time. I didn't want to just rush into things. Oh no, this had to be special. I don't know if you know this about me, but getting a massage is one of my favorite things. I'm not even talking about professionally; I'm not one of those chicks who lives in a spa and spends half her paycheck on "mani-pedi's" or other such indulgent services. No sir, I'm totally fine with asking friends, relatives, loved ones to spare a few minutes to ease the tension in my neck, crack my back, or play with my hair (I love those 5 minutes of scalp massaging when I get my hair cut). Anyway. The point is, my mother had generously paid for me to enjoy a 75 MINUTE massage at Bliss, a very nice spa in NYC. 75 minutes! Being massaged by a trained professional! Now, I had up until then had a professional massage twice before in my life. Both were 30 minutes long, and both were Totally Awesome. So I mean, I knew this was going to be GREAT. Hence my desire to save the experience for a time when I really Needed it. I wanted a ball of tension to store itself in my back like a hibernating animal. An animal that could only be coaxed out by soothing music, fragrant candles, low lighting, and the hands of a skilled Swiss woman.
Alas, it was not so.
I scheduled the appointment for the Monday following the first week of my new job. I thought this would be a good time, since I had been feeling very stressed out due to my not having any job at all for almost a month. I almost scheduled it during this time of unemployment, but I did not feel I would really appreciate it as much then, as I had so much time to be at home relaxing and watching cartoons. As it turns out I was right; my first week back in front of a computer left my back crazy knotted and by 5pm my fingers tended to go all tingly. So I called up Bliss, found out the 49th Street location stays open until 10pm, and scheduled an 8pm "Blissage". Having a massage to look forward to made the weekend all the more enjoyable, and I was actually excited when Monday rolled around. Looking back, I should have seen the warning signs.
Since I get out of work at 6pm, I figured I could take my time getting uptown, maybe see if Game Stop had anything new. But it turned out that that day we were Exceptionally Busy and I had to stay late. I ended up leaving at 7:15, leaving just enough time for me to get there by 7:45 to "check-in". It is Bliss policy that you arrive 15 minutes before your appointment to give your name, sign some forms or something, et cetera. I didn't question it, I just didn't want anything to cut into my Massage Time. So I left work hurriedly, already stressed about arriving late. Then, after waiting a good 20 minutes for the 6 train, I finally realized as it was pulling in that I was stupidly on the downtown side. Sigh. So I crossed the street, went back underground on the correct side, swiped my card AS the train was arriving, and THWACK, slammed my hip into the turnstile as the screen flashed JUST USED. Aghghgh. I ran over to the attendant and frantically tried to mime my situation as I listened for the "bing-bong" that would mean the doors had closed and I had lost my chance. Miraculously, the guy understood my flailing, and opened the gate just in time for me to run up to the train doors and have them swoosh closed in my face. SORRY ATHENA.
Somehow, I walked in at 7:46pm, a bit flustered but mostly relieved. I was shown into the women's dressing room to disrobe and re-robe with an actual robe. This robe was very comfortable, and I finally began to relax as I was shown into some sort of waiting room where there were small snack-y things, tea, white wine, ice water, and magazines. I poured myself a glass of wine, put some olives and a crackery thing on a napkin, and waited for my masseuse to come fetch me. I was feeling good. Warm. I knew that in mere moments, I would be whisked away to room of melting relaxation. BUT NO! I was snatched from my reverent anticipation by a shaky and DEEP voice, the voice of a dude.
Now let me explain something. A massage, though performed by a professional, is unavoidably invasive. I mean, first of all, it requires that you be mostly unclothed, and as if that weren't enough, some person is going to be kneading their hands all up into your skin. And sometimes, you get a couple close calls. However, this is not a Big Deal when your masseuse is a nice, experienced, perhaps foreign lady with all the same anatomy as you. I might even be okay with a guy if he were similarly seasoned, polite, confident, and reassuring. My massEUR was none of these things. What he was, was a nervous, young, short (I don't know why, but that made it creepier), and fidgety DUDE. Not man, not guy, not male, dude.
But. This was my Massage. My Massage that I had been waiting since December to receive and I was determined to keep a positive attitude. So. I was led to a room by Mr. Sweatypalms and instructed to once again disrobe and lie down face-up on the table. He left the room while I made myself comfortable, and as I stared at the ceiling I tried to tell myself that even if he seemed weird, he was ostensibly a professional and would at least be able to loosen the knots in my upper back. He came back into the room, and in a shaky voice explained to me that he would be starting with a foot massage, followed by some sort of moisturizing foot wrap, then work his way towards my head, I'd turn over, and he'd do my back and neck. Fine. I figured I'd close my eyes, listen to the alternating Norah Jones and Billy Holiday tracks, and try to forget that a 30something circus midget who was probably a virgin was giving me a rub-down.
I soon realized that this was not going to be possible. As I lay there, I became painfully aware of two sounds that would permeate my session, and my happiness. First, there was the breathing. This dude was breathing like he had just resurfaced from a two hour deep-sea diving excursion. THE WHOLE TIME. I almost asked him if he was okay, but I was afraid he'd have some sort of breakdown and I'd have to console him. This is how disturbing the BREATHING was. Then, there were his sneakers. I do not know what material these shoes were made of, but it most certainly was not made for sneaking. Or maybe it was the way he hurriedly shuffled around the room like he was performing heart surgery and I could die at any moment if he didn't retrieve the essential oils in time. Whatever the reason, audible squeaks surrounded me every time this dude got up, which was often.
So, we're 20 minutes in and I'm decidedly uncomfortable. Then, as the dude is wrapping an entirely too-hot plastic bag around my right foot, some part of the bag rips. I know this not because I feel or hear it, but because he goes "FUCK." ... Do not say fuck during my massage. I am here to relax and you are supposed to be soothing me, calming me, massaging me away from a world where people say fuck in stressful situations. So I ask, "everything okay?" as politely as I can manage, and he explains that he has to quickly go get a replacement bag. Squeaky squeaky squeaky, he exits. I am once again left alone to reflect on my situation. Now, I am fairly certain I am not high-maintenance. I bite my nails. I don't always wash my hair every day. I leave dishes in the sink for extended periods of time. But. This was an Expensive massage, and while it was not my own money that was paying for it, they did not know that and I expected that I'd be receiving my mother's money's worth.
But I digress.
Dude finally returns, new bag in hand. I realize that I could have, and should have said something at this point, but I kept hoping matters would improve. Besides I was already feeling vulnerable enough lying half-nekkid under a sheet, and I was afraid that if I said anything it would shatter the palpable air of tension in the room and he would cry or yell at me or something similarly the opposite of relaxing. So I stayed quiet and pretended to be asleep as he proceeded to give me a scalp massage, which felt more like the routine lice-check at summer camp. Except the camp nurse didn't BREATHE LOUDLY IN MY EAR. Just.
So. That was my "Blissage". It completely Blissucked and I was left thoroughly Blissappointed. Perhaps one day I will be brave enough to again entrust my muscles to a stranger, but until then I'll just have to whine around my friends until one of them grudgingly pounds on my back.
