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Wednesdays, I take a longer lunch break to make it down to the Hampton strip mall for a massage. In in between Benny's Tacos and Ever Clean Dry Cleaner, there is a little glass door to a low-priced massage place. They are scrawny middle-aged mamas who really need a massage.
It's $40 for an hour. I would not lose cash on a luxury of over $100 for an hour of sensation nice. The place has to be super-efficient. The college lady behind the counter is talking on the phone and scolding an older client for not tipping enough at the same time. A skinny massage therapist, who is obviously brand-new, looks afraid to interrupt the receptionist to find out who her next client is. An older tall male therapist behind her pushed the skinny massage therapist aside to take the centre of the waiting room to bark out: Who's here for Lorenz?
I try to remain out of the fray of massage therapists and clients combining up on the hour. I attempt to let chance pick the therapist and be non-discriminating. There is a continuous turn-over since the majority of newly finished massage therapists understand that the occupation isn't for them. That day was a good day. When only debris was left in the waiting space and a meaningless Styrofoam cup on the floor, a short, slim, young white girl called out my name. She wore a casual tee shirt with a big print and exercise pants. We walked down the poorly lit corridor with numerous doors leading into therapy rooms. The treatment rooms were all the same. They were small. The massage table didn't even fit in straight. It was diagonally in the room. The door didn't open fully. I kind of needed to squeeze myself past the padded foam to enter into an open sufficient space. There was soft music playing from a low-cost radio alarm clock. A candle light was flickering in the corner. Ah, this was going to be my sanctuary for the next hour from the tension at work. I had made it through the parking lot battle to get a spot and the waiting room. I would have the ability to zone out.
When Angie flicked her finger delicately, in fact with nearly a lack of respect, for me to undress and lie down, I knew something was various with that new woman. Her hand flick felt like a South Central hood rat informing someone: Yo, slam it down there! It felt like a wake-up call. It probably wasn't going to be a high-quality massage, but when one gets a massage, the body listens with 100% attention to every touch. The accidents or errors sometimes offer the most interesting sensations to feel. That's what you get for a $40 massage. As soon as I 'd close my eyes and feel her hands on my back, there would not be any difference between a high-end massage location and this.
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