Before last Thursday, I had never indulged in the realm of the Swedish massage, but I had seen it on TV. I only knew there would be oil -- lots and lots of oil.
As for the masseur I imagined Brazil's 2002 World Cup soccer team types (names like Ranoldo or Luiz), or former 1994 gold medal winning Olympiad Swiss Hockey players (names like Tomas or Niklas). Those foreign men can be so risqué.
It's no wonder my muscles were so tense last week, being that there was so much activity going on in our world. To our south, the Caribbean Islands seemed to have joined forces with the environmentalist's fight to save the trees by cutting down on paper cups so that hotels had guests slurping tequila out of each others' bellybuttons.
On the market, the well-endowed girls (and I don't mean that in financial terms) were bringing new light to the Hanes Beefy Tee. They were hosed down on stages by adoring troops of guys -- and I don't mean that in the military sense -- who seemed to have a fetish for wet, white cotton.
Talk about commotion. I needed to relax, so the spa receptionist booked my spring break Swedish massage appointment late in the day. This was so I wouldn't miss the PTH (that's prime tanning hours for you pasties!) when those cancerous UV rays are at their zenith.
His name was Michael. My masseur Michael. Yet, from the moment Michael stepped into the dimly lit room and popped in his sounds of the rainforest CD, I knew that something was wrong. Then it hit me over the head gently like the tingling sensation of deep scalp revitalizing fingertip technique.
My Masseur Michael was missing his masculine muscles. He was older than Michael Jordon, Michael Keaton and even Michael Douglas.
My moldy, musty masseur. Think fiftyish, graying hair and the peculiar wispy voice of an elderly neighbor who always is trying to lure little boys and girls over for "lemonade."
I would rather have been tortured by the tunes of Michael Bolton.
I knew the big man up in the sky was laughing it up right then at his cruel and unusual punishment for my swiping the extra bottles of hotel shampoo and lotion from the maid's cart. (Who knows how many shampoos I walked away with, feeling a rush as I boarded the plane with my loot, as if it were pirates booty of gold adorned gems. I can't help it. It's an addiction, and that amazing aloe-vera gel makes sunburn feel like a dream.)
Ok, back to my masseur Michael. Now maybe there are some things that actually do get better with age: appreciation of the early bird special, blinding white tennis shoes and, of course, Dick Clarks impermeable hair ... but not masseurs -- moldy, musty masseurs.
If our government was functioning properly, musty masseurs licenses would be taken away -- along with those centenarians who can't see over the steering wheel -- the ones with their blinker perpetually on, signaling for the eventual left.
That is why I am writing this -- to speak candidly and truthfully about the dangers of Swedish massage.
This week, I've seen many of you writhing with the masses on the bottom floor of Clemons, horrified by an occasional shriek when another innocent realizes that they too have lost their final ounce of tan under the stale glow of the florescent lights. So even if you have endured a sadistic trial of after Spring Break midterms and are thinking of reaching for the Yellow Pages, let me remind you one thing: Swedish massage is not the answer.
You see, there is no way to politely turn your back to the masseur and run away screaming that his hands look like pitted prunes. Succumbing to the Spa's terrycloth bathrobe is like getting on the loop-de-loop roller-coaster. No matter how much fried dough and cotton candy you are tossing up, you're stuck.
I really wish my moldy, musty masseur Michael had been some sleazy liquored-up date so I could have demanded, "Get your hands off of me." But that wouldn't have made any sense in this case. I had, after all, asked for it -- and charged it on my Visa.
I really wish I could of peppered him with questions such as, "What was the turning point in your life when you knew you wanted to knead strangers' muscles for the rest of your life? Did you suffer from lack of affection as a child and/or do you have a funny relationship with your mother? If you were stuck on a desert island with only a pineapple pizza and a bottle of lavender infused cream, whom would you want to massage?"
But instead, I kept my mouth shut to maintain the professional environment in the room, since I was half-naked on a table and all. My musty moldy masseur then proceeded to pull a lot of bull out of his aroma-therapy oil, such as how massage cures eight out of ten people's chronic illnesses.
I could see the headlines of tomorrow's newspaper. "Swedish Massage: Fighting the War on Drugs ... and Terrorism" or "Sadam's Crankiness Caused not by Hidden Nuclear Missiles, but by Back Spasms."
So what did I think about during my 50 -- count them -- 50 minutes of Swedish massage? Oh, you know, the usual things that race through one's mind when some weirdo is kneading your Trapezius (that's upper back) or Semitendinosis (Hamstring). I obviously thought about who might win the democratic nomination for the 2004 Presidential election, how Martha Stewart got away with her blatant insider trading, and if or when we would go to war.
Yes, there is so much commotion in this world that I'm sure one day I'll get back on the table and have another Swedish massage. But the figurative scars of my musty, moldy masseur Michael will take a long time to heal.Maybe a little aloe-vera gel would help, or maybe they'll just peel off along with the skin on my nose.
Either way, next time I will make sure to know exactly whose hands I'll be in.
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