Today is the one week anniversary of the worst massage I have ever had in my life. I’ve been experiencing a little tightness in my back and shoulders of late, so instead of meeting friends for drinks as some might, I decided to really treat myself to an evening free of knots. The place I normally go was full with a wait of over an hour (this was an impromptu decision, thus no appointment was made). The place I ended up is a few doors down. I’ve been there before under similar circumstances and was not impressed then either, but I could get in without too much of a wait. Still, this time managed to be worse.

The masseuse managed to convince me that she had fallen asleep shortly after she started by planting her elbow into three spots in my hamstring and effectively not moving at all for a minute on the third. I turned to look back and she started moving again. This is a hard profession for those people. I appreciate that. Take all the breaks and water you need, but once the clock is ticking on my massage, I believe it reasonable that whips should be a-crackin’. Does the fact that she effectively took a nap on my right leg make it the worst massage ever? Not at all.

She eventually tired of drilling my hamstrings and began prospecting along my spine. Not the muscles along my spine – my actual spine. Anyone who has ever even HAD a massage, WITNESSED a massage, or has any sensitivity toward spinal injury and the basic joys of mobility would appreciate that this is bad form. I pretty quickly suggested that she stop pressing directly on my spine the way she was doing it. It happens I’m sure and plenty of people have successfully gotten up and walked away, but my idea of being paralyzed does not involve a Friday evening respite from the tensions of the world.. and in fact, I have no ideas about being paralyzed besides that I don’t want it to happen to me.

She then rubbed my back in a completely unorganized and confusing way akin to 6 year-olds having dipped their arms in baby oil up to their chests and having been instructed quite specifically to make a mess. She was all over the place. When I was in Beijing, I had what is called a “blind massage”, which is simply a massage given by a blind person. As you might imagine that person’s senses were heightened, and he seemed to appreciate the power of appropriate and purposeful touch. Last week’s effort reminded me of a “blind massage”, but in name only.

She quickly grew tired of slathering my back with oil or perhaps she simply ran out of her half gallon allotment, and then pulled my boxers down as if preparing for a spanking of some sort. She did not linger, mercifully; and I was reluctant to get oil all my clothes, so I relented and simply let sleeping dogs lie, as it were. I was face down just for the record. Thus far does this sound like the worst massage ever, at least in a developed country where the purpose is other than torture? Probably not quite yet, but just you wait.

As she ping-ponged from one part of my body to another, she eventually decided that it was time for me to have my arms pulled over my head as if I was trying to create the thinnest and longest possible me. She then began to rub my ribs, working her way up to my armpits. I sensed the dangerous hilarity only inches away and began to balloon. I had gone from confused and annoyed to being on the verge of exploding with laughter, a truly uncommon position for me (on all counts). Lo and behold, she hit “detonate” with the wiggle of a finger and I erupted. I sounded like a person trying to spray as much water as far as possible while keeping his lips firmly pursed and sealed. It was so loud that I startled even myself and I knew it was coming. She screamed at the sudden movement and sound. She had been looking at an unmoving and face down me for at least 30 minutes at that point. We both laughed. I kept laughing. The whole thing was so ridiculous. People in the others rooms had to have wondered what on earth was going on with those curtains drawn. I was behind those very curtains and still had no good answer.

I attempted to compose myself, but the peace had been completely interrupted and life within the confines of this massage as we had known it was over. Forever. Nonetheless, we carried on. She soon disappeared. Shortly thereafter, I heard the sounds of someone trying to gather up the material that they would rather clear from their own chest, followed by the sound of coughing. It was probably was not her. Anyway. She returned. Rather quietly in fact, but for the plop onto the cushion on each side of my head. She had hot stones.

Hot stones are not to be toyed with. They are hard and they are hot. They are to be handled expertly; by experts, preferrably. At this point, I had serious doubts that this woman had ever even seen a massage being delivered before. The thought of her handling hot stones didn’t bother me in the slightest. The thought of her putting them on me on the other hand made me sweat prematurely, even though it was hard to know if I was just greasy. The fact that she said “Aye!” when she picked them up certainly worried me further, but I was resigned to having possibly two hot stone scars to remind me to set up appointments in advance at the other place. Being able to stand the heat no longer, she dropped them on my back. The slathering of oil was a welcome buffer, but they were certainly quite hot. Anyone who has ever had a massage with hot stones knows that generally they are rubbed all over the back on one side until the heat is exhausted, then flipped over. She flipped them over repeatedly on essentially the same part of my back like hot potatoes that she could pass only to herself, but wanted nothing to do with. I suffered more psychologically than physically. I was still fairly giddy for the explosive laughter and full of adrenaline, so I probably felt the sting slightly less. Felt it I did.

Soon it was done. I slowly rose and looked around my prison after she had left, probably to go lick her blistering paws and rest her arms. I gathered my possessions. She had tacked my boxers back to my waist, fastened with the glue of baby oil which had in fact, quite possibly saved my life. It was definitely the worst.