Anywho, let’s talk about the massage. Just the other week, I was the first time recipient of a hot stone massage. The male masseuse was incredibly soft-spoken. No, really. I couldn’t hear this gentle, New Age dude at all. Come to find out, he was telling me to be honest with him about the temperature of the rocks. Yeah, in one ear and out the other. Got scalded.
“Iceland’s volcano. Those rocks must have been hot, too,” was all I could think of. I winced as the skin on the back of my legs melted off the bone like lamb’s meat. The masseuse, although a kind fellow, (I sensed this through his smile and sincere eyes) could not manage to mutter an audible apology. So I took it upon myself to fill the room with sounds one might associate with an injured horse. Or perhaps a llama. A chorus of weird neighs and high-pitched ninnies.
Turns out, I just couldn’t take the heat.
(Not me.)
