Working Out The Kinks
I’ve never considered myself much of a Metrosexual. My suits are generic. My cologne is still in the box behind the counter. And while I do boast fairly good personal hygiene (I have three out of my last five job performance evaluations to prove it), the closest I’ve ever come to getting a manicure is when I slice off a well-chewed, bloody hangnail with my trusty balisong.
The only real pampering I’ve ever really allowed myself to enjoy is flying first class. But really, if you weren’t in an airplane, first class is the same as sitting in a booth at Applebees. The food is acceptable, the legroom not too cramped, and someone is always on the ready to fetch you another drink. It’s only when you compare it to the alternative – mystery meat, bruised knees, a fat sweaty guy leaning on you, and a stewardess whose attitude is so abysmal that it would get her fired from the DMV – that first class begins to seem the least bit luxurious.
After buying a new Saturn last month – my first new car in twelve years – I’m still feeling kind of guilty about how fancy schmancy it looks. This is a Saturn, mind you. My point being, I guess, that I’m not the kind of prick who merrily dribbles 1992 Brunello on the filthy heads of the little people and chuckles as they suffocate in the fog of my froie gras farts.
A few months ago, though, I took a huge step forward in becoming a soft, entitled douchebag. I started getting massages. Not Yankee cranky “massages” with happy endings (happy at first, but then, I suspect, very, very sad and depressing) but real deep-tissue, jam-your-fucking-elbow into-the-small-of-my-back massotherapy. It’s absolutely wonderful and I’m totally hooked.
The weird thing about massage is how anonymous yet personal the experience is. Ann, my professional masseuse, and I have probably exchanged a total of twenty words since I started seeing her regularly. I know absolutely nothing about the woman. Still, when I call, she is willing and ready to purposefully yet tenderly mend and nurture nearly every aspect of my physical being (except, of course, my favorite aspects). And while there is nothing sexual about the experience - even if she wanted to give me a happy ending, I would be too terrified that she might sneeze and rip my cock off with her grotesquely muscular hands to maintain “full attention” - it is still an extremely gratifying corporal experience.
As a result, every time I see Ann I want to give her a hug, in the same way that I want to hug a keg of Guiness, a full bottle of Vicadin, or the leg of an inner city policeman. Again, not amorous, but genuinely heartfelt. In fact, the last time I was leaving her shop I absently waved and said, “Bye bye. I love you.”
This, I think, is a very peculiar idea for a man to come to terms with. The even weirder thing is that I don’t think it would matter one bit if Ann were a man.
Anyway, this confused state of mindset was the backdrop yesterday afternoon when I accidentally forgot about my 6:00 PM appointment with Ann.
Irrational and misplaced as it may be, I was distraught. “Oh no!” I cried out to Nerdy, “I missed my appointment with Ann. I didn’t call or anything. She just sat there waiting for me. Christ! I hope she doesn’t…break-up with me!”
Nerdy, of course, didn’t understand. She told me to calm down and said Ann was a professional and these things happen. “Give her a big tip next time and she’ll be fine.”
Yeah, right. Just give her money like she’s some kind of whore or something.