My back is hurting and I limp here and there around Rainmaker Studios, crablike, contorted and bent. This is not new. I have this ailment on a regular basis and it runs its course and then I’m fine. Today, however, I am not fine.
Dee Dee looks at my Igor-ish stance, frowns, and says, “You really should see Shannon, it’s on us.” I ask why I should see Shannon, who also works at Rainmaker. Dee Dee explains that Shannon is also a masseuse and can help. Shannon is a masseuse? I see Shannon all the time at Rainmaker. Never knew that. Amazing what you don’t know about the people you see every day. So I arrange to see Shannon, on them. I have never had a massage.
Shannon Roberts is a nationally certified CMT (neatfeet.biz). Pretty cool. Sounds like she can help me. But there is a catch. Instead of using her hands, she uses her feet. Now, Shannon has good feet, but say whuh? I find that part out when I get to her office. The procedure’s called Ashiatsu Oriental Bar Therapy. Her feet? My mind attempts to assimilate this new piece of information as I examine the bars on the roof above the table. I look down at her little feet. I imagine getting my butt kicked by a friend who practices an ancient art I have never even heard of. Too late, I’m there and Rainmaker is paying for Shannon to abuse me. My mind folds into a small wad. My first massage, and I’m staring down a petite blonde who’s going to walk all over me. Of course, having been in advertising for 250 years, this won’t be the first time I’ve been walked all over by a woman, but still. It’s not what I expected.
She must be amused as she looks at my wide eyes taking in the room and the apparatus bolted to the ceiling that she will soon hang from as she works my twisted muscles with her trained feet. Soothing music plays; the room seems deep purple spritzed with silver swishes. I stand there like a lost hiker in the woods and figure, well, when in Rome. It’s just Shannon, right? I know Shannon. How bad can it be?
She looks at me matter-of-factly. “Take off everything and get under the towel and I’ll be back in a second.” she says as she is filling a tub of lotion. She leaves. Great. I’ll be naked. Not only will she stomp me into the padded table, she’ll do it while I’m in my birthday suit. I should have gotten massages when I was 20 and looked like a stud. I feel sorry for her now. I wouldn’t want to look at my naked rear at 9 a.m. She’s probably seen it all, though. I think about George on “Seinfeld” for some reason.
I reluctantly do what she says, and she comes back and tries to reassure me. She knows I’m as tense as Al Franken at Ann Coulter’s house. I stare at the floor as she rubs the lotion on my back.
“I don’t have to have a red ball in my mouth do I?” I ask, attempting humor, which is tough when all of your clothes are way over there.
“Nope. Just go with it. The idea is to relax,” she says. “Some people go to sleep. Since you have never had a massage, I’ll only do this for an hour. That way you won’t be too sore tomorrow.”
I have no idea what is about to happen to me as I lay face down and naked under parallel bars while she gets ready to take a stroll on my backside. Sore tomorrow? She must weigh 90 pounds. I’m scared.
I can’t see what she’s doing up there but my mind stumbles around confused in the smooth music, because there’s no way that she can do that with her feet. It feels exactly like a strong guy with big hands is rubbing the kinks out of my years of self-inflicted muscle torture, up and down, back and forth, shoulders and back and legs. Not bad. Not bad at all. She rubs her foot into my palm and I’m thinking, as odd as this sounds, she knows what she’s doing. It feels great.
After 10 minutes, I am happy as Rush Limbaugh at Ann Coulter’s house. After 20 minutes, I am wondering why 100 people aren’t lined up outside waiting for their turn. This Ashiatsu foot thing is amazing. What was I thinking? The Asians have figured this little procedure out and Shannon is rubbing and Jackie Chan-ing me into a coma as her feet act like Mr. Miyagi out for a nice walk across my once-painful torso. This is seriously good stuff here.
My friends who get regular massages all swear that it’s the best thing in the world. They have told me for years that I should get one. I just never found the time. No exact reason why. Just work too many hours and have too many things to do all at once. May be why my back is tangled like a broken elevator’s cables. But not today.
It took Shannon just 60 minutes to make a believer out of me. I left her office feeling like I could ride a bicycle 200 mph. I wasn’t sore. I nearly left my car there and ran to the office. I felt that good. I am a convert. Yeah, I’m hooked. I hope it’s not like my BlaK soda addiction. I could use one of these things every day.
There’s only one problem. My free massage is over. If I go there every day, I’ll be broke and Shannon will be driving a Porsche. So I’m looking for a part-time job to pay for my newfound Jones. I have a massage monkey on my back. Oh wait, geez, that didn’t come out right. I feel like George Allen now. Sorry, Shannon.
