Last night I went to a new Bible study group for the first time. Young sort of people from the local community church. Perhaps I was wrong to assume that they wouldn't try to kill me.
"Oh, come in!! It's so nice to meet you!! Let me get you a cinnamon roll!! Oh, put your name on this list, we've got a masseuse upstairs and you can get a turn!!"
Wow. This is my kind of Bible study. Or this is how cults start. Either way, I'm in.
Rookie mistake, Reeves.
I should have picked up their meta-meaning, "Hi, how about an extra large torture?"
So I sign up. And have a cinnamon roll. It's breakfast for dinner night. I chat with med school Waldo (tall, skinny schmo in red/white horizontally striped shirt. That's Waldo, right?!) about the virtues and vices of artificial sugar, and chat with Affliction t-shirt guy about his level of twiddledicketry. All is normal at the Bible study.
"Hey Luke, your turn for the massage!"
On belay.
I fritz you not, the rub down lasted less than 10 minutes. Just a quick teaser because everyone in the whole group was going to take a turn. Surprisingly though, there was plenty of time for me to hear "Michelle's" entire life story; the challenges and rewards of being a single mother massage therapist in small-town Texas.
The rest of the evening sort of runs together... like two people who run together. There was talk of Sabbath, I was the butt of some reading jokes. The evening ended without incident. I even had a pleasant feeling as I left. Another rookie mistake.
This morning I wake up.
+Side note: I just moved. I live in a place called Riddle Manor. I have a chandelier. Deal with it. And deal with the plus signs.+
I look at the chandelier. All is well. I inhale.
One thousand miniature scorpions synchronously shift position within the muscles of my neck and back and head. Then they all fire their plasma rifles at each other. Objectively, this made passing a grapefruit-sized kidney stone seem like eating cotton candy. The ER doctor would later say that not since the 50th anniversary performance of the original Radio City Rockettes, has anyone been in that much pain. I would rather wear earrings made from my eyes than get another massage.
I don't know what Michelle's political opinions are, but she's dangerous. Sure she would be slower than a Crock Pot, but she is a weapon capable of mass destruction.
I've unceremoniously graduated from rookie status. Let me warn you, Blahglievers- never get a massage. And if you're a massage therapist- I'm telling the FBI.
3 comments:
I... do not agree.
I would move heaven and earth for a massage.
I've been told two things since the massage I wish I'd known:
1. drink water. before and after. lots.
2. 'don't wear your patsypants.'
This made me laugh. A lot. I particularly enjoyed the sidenote.
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