For my entire adult life, I’ve been on a quest. I have found some fellow seekers who I can talk with for hours about it, and some who can’t understand it whatsoever but encourage me all the same. The eternal search for the perfect massage.
For those of you who haven’t dedicated your time, money and Google searches to this, let me fill you in:
There’s the luxurious massages – day spas, beauty salons, herbal tea, foot soaks, perfumed towels, a therapist who doesn’t talk other than to ask if the pressure is satisfactory, and a small mortgage required to finance your 60 minutes of bliss. The massage will likely put you to sleep and work out your sore points simultaneously. It’s magic.
If the bank denies your loan, you’re a fan of sites like GrabOne or you’re allergic to perfume, there’s the middle of the road experiences – nice facilities, private rooms, the risk of a therapist who talks about their political beliefs, and a reasonable price. You can usually count on a pretty decent massage.
If you’re desperate, disorganised, don’t want to spend much money or just feel the need to break up your shopping trip with a bit of a sit down and a rub, there’s the quick and dirty (not that kind of dirty) mall massages. Public viewings during your chair massage with cloths over your clothes, or an awkward curtain booth with a ripped serviette to put your face on when you lie down. No risk of your therapist talking too much but their hands may smell strongly of fish. The massage itself could be really good or an infuriating waste of money. Thankfully it won’t have cost you more than a dollar a minute.
Last week I ducked in for a classic mall neck, back and shoulder massage while at the mall. I’d tried this particular place a few times and found it consistently good.
All was going well, even though it was no East Day Spa. About 25 minutes into my allocated 40 minutes, my senses were startled by an awful smell. Face down, trapped on the table, I opened my eyes to see my therapist flapping the curtain back and forth. She had obviously farted – let one slip that was the definition of silent but violent – and surprised even herself with how potent it smelt.
The not-so-subtle curtain wave did nothing but push the particles further towards my face and my arms were stuck by my side so I couldn’t even reach through the table to block my nose. One has to breathe which is rather inconvenient at times such as this.
Neither of us said a thing and the massage carried on. Feeling grateful for PayWave, I quickly paid without making eye contact with her and drove home wondering why these things don’t seem to happen to other people.
Who said quests were simple, right?