The foot massage.

             I love foot massages.  Problem is no one will give me one.  My husband does on occasion but always expects something in return ifyouknowwhati'mtalkingaboutandithinkyoudo, and honestly, I'm sick of washing his car.

                                                            

           So what's a girl to do.  Enter the $25 foot massage establishments that are popping up all over town!   Yahoo!  Such a bargain.  Are these trained professionals?  Who cares.  It's twenty five bucks and they'll touch my feet.

             This past Christmas my husband bought me something I actually WANTED, which never happens.  Usually I just get rechargeable batteries (true story) and a new appliance for the house that he bought four months ago and said, "How about we consider this one of your Christmas gifts."  He's a wonderful guy, but he can take practicality to an obscene, and really annoying, level.

           So what I'm saying is that there are rarely any surprises or grand romantic gestures on Christmas morning. But that's ok, I know my husband loves me, plus there are cookies on every surface of my house so I can eat my feelings.
 
         Well, imagine my surprise when I opened one of my presents under the tree and found a People Magazine with an envelope taped to it that said, "You can read this while you go get your foot massage" and inside was a gift certificate for the local massage parlor.  Alright!  This has to be some kind of record, he actually listened when I dropped one of my MANY, MANY, MANY hints about gift ideas....truly a Christmas miracle.

        Well today was the big day.  I've been home with a sick child for the last five days straight and I thought, dammit, I deserve a creepy foot massage!  So in I marched with gift certificate in hand.  It was a very nice place inside, once you forget about that tacky blinking neon foot sign hanging outside, and as I sat in the waiting room I was instantly calmed by the plug-in gurgling fountain next to a bowl of old Halloween candy. Ahhh, Nirvana. 

         My "foot massage therapy specialist" Jack entered and showed me to the massage room, which was basically a big room with about eight beds, each separated by a sheer curtain.  So, although not exactly private, it was welcoming and zen...ish. It was already WAY better than what I was expecting.  I'm not sure what exactly I was expecting, but that wasn't it.

         Jack was very pleasant although very hard to understand, but I kept talking to him anyway because this is what I do.  I don't know why I always feel I have to talk through any kind of massage or manicure kind of thing that I get.  I guess I just feel weird having someone touch me for an hour and not say anything to them.  Unfortunately I get so caught up in talking I usually forget to enjoy the damn massage and before you know it it's over and I'm kicking myself for not shutting up and enjoying it.                                                                                                                                                                                         
          Jack told me that he was from China, which I only understood the second time around since I couldn't make out through his accent what he said the first time.  I asked him if he liked it in San Diego and he said, "Yes, much better than China.  China bad.  Too many people."  I asked him if it was hard for him to get here from China, lot of paperwork?  (I said I make conversation, I didn't say it was good conversation) He paused and then said, "Work? No, nobody work. See?  Not many here today."  Ok.  So that about ended the chit chat.

 Let's get to get to those size 9's!

          Turns out a foot massage is actually almost an entire body massage, just with all my clothes on and no private room.  Where has this been all my life?

         Jack massaged my head, neck, and shoulders (at which point he announced "Neck, good. Shoulders bad."  Not sure why my shoulders are bad but whatever  I'm learning so much about myself lately.  I have a small brain -see MRI post- and now bad shoulders.  I'm a hot mess.)
     
        After he massaged the head, neck, shoulders, arms, fingers, legs and feet I thought I was through.  Not so!  I was told to flip over at which point he did one of those painful deep tissue things to my back, wowza!  I almost had to tell him to stop since he was pressing so hard on my lower back (which, in addition to my shoulders, sucks).  I was tensing up so he wouldn't jack up my back, and because I was tensing he kept pressing harder, making me tense more.  I don't know why I didn't tell him to ease up, I just kept hoping he'd finish and move onto another area.  Apparently I have no problem making really stupid chit chat but when it comes to being in pain I've got nothing to say.  I make no sense, see small brain.

        So, to sum up, would I go back to the parlor with the blinking foot on the door?  You betcha. $25 for an hour massage, heavenly.   Next time though, instead of asking about the amount of immigration paperwork I'd maybe be a little more vocal about him pressing his knees (felt like a knee) into my lower back ten times.  All in all, I give it two toes up.