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Wednesdays, I take a longer lunch break to make it down to the Hampton strip shopping center for a massage. In between Benny's Tacos and Ever Clean Dry Cleaner, there is a little glass door to a low-priced massage location. They are scrawny middle-aged mothers who truly need a massage.
It's $40 for an hour. I wouldn't squander cash on a high-end of over $100 for an hour of feeling great. The place has to be super-efficient. The college girl behind the counter is talking on the phone and berating an older consumer for not tipping enough at the same time. A slim massage therapist, who is obviously new, looks afraid to interrupt the receptionist to find out who her next customer is. An older high male therapist behind her pressed the skinny massage therapist aside to take the centre of the waiting space 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 constant turn-over because the majority of freshly finished massage therapists understand that the occupation isn't for them. That day was a good day. When just rubble was left in the waiting room and a meaningless Styrofoam cup on the floor, a brief, slim, young white girl called out my name. She used a casual t-shirt with a huge print and workout trousers. We strolled down the dimly lit corridor with many doors leading into therapy spaces. The treatment rooms were all the same. They were small. The massage table didn't even fit in straight. It was diagonally in the space. The door didn't open fully. I kind of had to squeeze myself past the padded foam to get into an open enough space. There was soft music playing from a low-cost radio alarm clock. A candle was flickering in the corner. Ah, this was going to be my sanctuary for the next hour from the stress at work. I had made it through the car park battle to get a area and the waiting space. I would be able to zone out.
When Angie flicked her finger casually, in fact with nearly a absence of regard, for me to undress and lie down, I knew something was different with that brand-new woman. Her hand flick felt like a South Central hood rat informing somebody: Yo, slam it down there! It felt like a wake-up call. While I undressed with her outside the door, I wondered what type 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 most likely 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 accidents or mistakes often provide the most fascinating feelings to feel. That's what you get for a $40 massage. Once 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.
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