Brian found an old gift card I had forgot about last week. For a massage. How does one forget about a massage? As that is basically the best 55 minutes one can have. I booked it ASAP and prepared for the "good hurt" of the deep tissue rubbing. After showing up and meeting Diane, we exchanged two sentences before I went into the wonderfully warm, lavender smelling, fake fireplace crackling, crazy chime music playing room. And then I spent an hour letting her dig her elbows and hands into my back and hips.
I am a No Talking massage person. I don't care where you went to school. Or about that wonderful enlightening trip you took to India with your college boyfriend. I am sure your new puppy is adorable and your mom will just love that custom picture calendar you ordered her for Christmas. But more rubbing, less chatting. I cannot properly fall into a pseudo sleep where I order myself to relax if I am trying to think up responses to your ramblings.
Sure it is probably rude and kind of weird to only exchange names and a "Hello" with a complete stranger before stripping down to my VS panties and laying half naked under a sheet. When I think about it, I speak more to the store employee I bought my VS panties from and they didn't even see me in them like Diane the masseuse. But part of me just doesn't care how strange the whole arrangement is. Because it was the best 55 minutes of my week.