I had a chair massage done today.
No, no. Not that kind of massage. The genteel kind from a crack team of masseuses that set up in offices to spend the day squeezing tired heads and necks in order to relieve a little 9-5 stress.
It was part of some employee appreciate gig they put together which included a mahi mahi lunch and ten minute chair rub down for the weary corporate cogs.
They set up five or six sitting chairs in the atrium and play Enya-type stuff with waterfall sound effects to relax the peoples they are working on.
And again, Iím not gonna front. I was all into it, dreary new-agey-music and all.
Damnit, I was relaxed. And it was nice.
Until the lady found a big ass knot in my shoulder blade and decided to go all kung-fu on me.
But that passed.
And everything was fine. I closed my eyes and was all ďyeah! Thatís the stuff! Work that knot!Ē as I was just about to go into a drool inducing light nap, probably dreaming of waterfalls and pink clouds and unicorns and rock and roll or rocking out pink unicorns when all of the sudden the peaceful coma-inducing atmosphere was pierced by a huge and sudden shrill ann-frank:
Code Read Alert: do not touch my lower back, ok? Like. Ever. *
It wasnít a big deal, she was only doing her job but my lower back registers off the charts ticklish and maybe I should have said something before hand but I was half-asleep and not even thinking about it I thought it was just a neck and shoulders thing and then there was this sudden lower-back sneak attack and I am really sorry I ruined all the other peoples in the chairs riding-a-horse-on-the-beach Enya fantasies but god damn Iíve got one ticklish back and I just canít help it.
That doesnít help the embarrassment of the squawk, though.
I mean, it was loud. And that that atrium really echos.
Anyway, I donít think theyíre gonna let me sign up next time. And I am only half kidding!
Thatís okay, though. I am not bitter! That Enya is crap anyway!!
In other news, I thought the only thing that would save me from embarrassment today would be winning the big contest but somehow the Matador Records representative must have gotten lost on their way to my apartment because no one showed up at my door with an oversized check and a boatload of jsbx merch for me.
But thatís okay, my biggest fear was winning then having the Matador folks post my crap-story somewhere for actual people to read.
But I really, really wanted those plastic fangs! I guess I will just have to hit Walgreens and score my own. Perhaps a little something with gold fronts? Thatíll show those Matador people!
* The only reason I even tell you this top secret information is because letís face it, the chances of you touching my back are slim. But letís keep this tid-bit to ourselves, and save us all the embarrassment okay?