I bring this up because I had a massage on Tuesday that was the best massage ever, mostly because I was actually able to relax. And while I was lying there, melting into the heated massage bed, I remembered this story about Brother and his massage. And since brother doesn't read this blog, I'm going to tell you all my version of the story he told me, five year rule be damned.
One year, I talked my mom into buying Brother a massage at the new all male salon that had just opened near him. Brother is a pain to shop for but he runs so I thought a massage would be a good thing. And they served beer and all the TV’s had sports stuff on and the staff talked sports stuff and it was all very alpha male but with good smells. Can't go wrong with a little pampering, right?
Well, apparently we were wrong. Very, very wrong.
Why? Well, the guy massaging Brother thought he was very attractive and told him so. Several times. In fact, not only did he make a point of telling Brother he was hot, he also asked if it was true that African-American men are well endowed. While Brother was lying face down naked on the table, I might add.
Now Brother is very secure in his masculinity. He isn't the type to get all bent out of shape with someone telling him he’s pretty, no matter the gender. He likes being pretty. But lying naked on a table with a guy rubbing his back and asking if his package is up to the hype? Well, that will lead to more than a few uncomfortable moments.
Then it got worse. The masseur had brother flip over and lie on his back and then scoot down so he could massage his legs and shoulders.
Now the flip from lying on your front to your back in massage land is a well-choreographed dance. Usually the masseur stands on one side of the table holding the sheet up and looking away while you roll to your front facing away from them. All the while, they make sure you don't take the sheet with you as you flip and that they can’t see any bits and bobs that might flop out from under the covers. This is always the point where I start giggling. I am not coordinated in the least and invariably trap a boob under an elbow or roll in the wrong direction and panic us both. But we're not talking about me. We’re talking about Brother.
So, in the darkened candle lit room, new age-y music moaning away on low in the background, the masseur asked Brother to flip over to his back and the choreography began. Masseur held the sheet; Brother flipped and scooted. Masseur placed the sheet down and Brother and lay there waiting for the massage to commence. Masseur adjusted the sheet, removed the head thing you put your face in, moved down to Brother’s feet, tucked them in and then moved back to his side. And then Masseur LIFTED UP BROTHER'S JUNK AND, said something along the lines of, “Wow! I see the legend is true.” WHILE HOLDING BROTHER'S JUNK AND MOVING IT TO THE SIDE!!!
Needless to say, Brother has requested we don’t get him gifts anymore. I don’t think he has had another massage since. And, after hearing that story, I sure as hell can’t get Husband to get one, let alone explain why I find them so freaking wonderful.
I can’t leave you with that image - though it’s a pretty darn funny one from my point of view, Brother is still not laughing. Here are a few pictures of slide pictures of Brother and me as wee ones in Kenya. He got cuter. I did not.