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Wednesdays, I take a longer lunch break to make it down to the Hampton strip shopping mall for a massage. In in between Benny's Tacos and Ever Clean Dry Cleaner, there is a little glass door to a affordable massage location. They are scrawny middle-aged mamas who actually need a massage.
It's $40 for an hour. I wouldn't squander money on a luxury of over $100 for an hour of feeling great. The location has to be super-efficient. The college lady behind the counter is talking on the phone and scolding an older customer for not tipping enough at the same time. A slim massage therapist, who is obviously brand-new, looks frightened 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 space to bark out: Who's here for Lorenz?
I attempt to stay out of the fray of massage therapists and clients pairing up on the hour. I try to let chance pick the therapist and be non-discriminating. There is a consistent turn-over because the majority of freshly finished massage therapists understand that the profession 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 woman called out my name. She used a casual tee shirt with a big print and exercise pants. We walked down the dimly lit hallway with numerous doors leading into therapy spaces. The treatment rooms were all the same. They were tiny. The massage table didn't even suit straight. It was diagonally in the room. The door didn't open completely. I type of needed to squeeze myself past the cushioned foam to get into an open enough 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 stress at work. I had actually made it through the parking area fight to get a spot and the waiting room. I would be able to zone out.
When Angie flicked her finger casually, really with almost a lack of respect, for me to undress and lie down, I knew something was different with that brand-new lady. Her hand flick felt like a South Central hood rat informing somebody: Yo, knock it down there! It was really different from the New Age caring-- Oh my god, has your aura been bruised by the world? mindset. There was no worried concern about any areas on my body that may bother me. I type of liked it. I'm not at all a submissive individual who yearns to be bossed around to clean up the toilet. There was a freshness and direct connection in that. It seemed like a wake-up call. Hey, somebody is breaking the veneer of the soft elevator music of daily veneer. She is going to connect with you in such a way that's new and keeps you on your toes. While I undressed with her outside the door, I questioned what kind of message it would be. I presumed that she didn't have a great deal of training and rather fell into it with minimal training. It probably wasn't going to be a high-quality massage, however when one gets a massage, the body listens with 100% attention to every touch. The mistakes or mishaps sometimes provide the most interesting feelings to feel. I raised my head out of the face basket on the table to call out that I was ready and under the sheets. The paper towel for hygiene factors on the face basket was already staying with my forehead and making a mess. 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 wouldn't be any difference in between a high-end massage location and this. I was being clever with my cash.
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