So I was all fucking excited because I finally made an appointment for a massage for 5:00 tonight. See, the Old Lady got me a gift certificate for an hour-and-a-half massage at this local place... LAST MARCH. I remember getting it for my birthday way back then and saying, "Shit man, I haven't had a massage in forever. I can't fucking wait!" And then I proceeded to stick it in a drawer and forget about it for 10 months. What a dick.
And I love massages. Every time I get one, I'm like, "Holy fuckstain, that was awesome! I've got get one of those mofos every goddamn month!" And then two years goes by and I'm like, "Why does my skeleton hurt?"
Needless to say, I was excited about tonight's massage. That is, until I get a phone call this morning from the masseuse. Masseur? It's a lady... I think it's massousela. Anywhich, she's all flustered and shit and says, "Hi, uh, I accidentally double-booked massages for tonight and, uh, would it be okay if we rescheduled yours?"
Of course I said "yes." I always say yes. The thing is, she was all nervous and apologetic and freaking out, and I'm thinking, "Is this the kind of energy I want transferred to my numb, atrophying muscles?" I thought massage people were supposed to be all zen and shit. Shit, she made me seem like the goddamn Dalai Lama.
So I rescheduled it for next Tuesday. It'll probably suck. And I'll be stressing the whole time, wondering how much to tip her. What do you tip a massager? I give the pizza guy 5 bucks. He drives like five minutes to my house and hands me a pizza. She's gonna be kneading my scrawny, unclothed, hair-caked body for 90 minutes. Based on what I give the pizza-dude, I'd owe her like 1000 dollars.
No wonder I only get a rubdown like every two years -- it's too fucking stressful. I'm just gonna buy me one of them massage chairs. Stick it in the fucking basement, sit in it, flip the switch and not tip it a goddamn penny.