Massage Envy?

So, I’m getting a massage. Yay! Except not really… because I’m slightly nervous. I’ve never had one. The closest I’ve come is having Batman rub my cankles or painfully knead my neck and shoulders and call it a back massage. I imagine this is not the same, but what do I know?

I have nothing against massages—they look awesome. But my experiences with other people touching me have never been at the top of my I want to repeat that list. Especially when I’m paying. I know what that sounds like—like I’ve purchased one too many terrible prostitutes or whatever. Not what I mean at all. But when I’ve gotten the few pedicures in the past, I’m cringing, counting down until I can grab a drink afterwards and forget about the pinching and jabbing and overall uncomfortableness while Amish Mafia plays in the background.

Plus I have to deal with the cankle exposure. For those of you who don’t know, cankles are the unfortunate occurrence when the calf fuses with the foot. Not sexy. Not sexy at all and don’t even get me started on the lack of cankle accessories to try feminizing this problem area. But that’s a topic for another day. Right now, it’s letting someone else touch me for a pre-negotiated price. Except I’m not paying. Thanks to Mrs. Whatever and her awesome husband for buying a birthday two-for-one Groupon massage, I’ll be trying out this whole new experience for free. And if it’s free, it’s for me.

Except gonorrhea. You can keep that.

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