|
|
I recently got an email asking me to list the top three most awkward/embarrassing things to ever happen to me. By principle, I never do the top three anything. Though I feel I have more than my share of embarrassing moments, it has never crossed my mind to enumerate, categorize, and enforce a ranked perspective on the trivial minutia in my life. And the only lists I make are checklists that have no bearing on my life whatsoever; I like making lists of things I absolutely do not need to do. Checking off items that you never had the intention of doing gives you a sense of accomplishment and worth. For instance, my list for today says:
1. __ No running a marathon.
2. __ No jumping off cliffs or tall buildings.
3. __ No eating brussel sprouts.
4. __ No fights with several bearded, leather-clad bikers holding weapons.
5. __ No reciting Irish limericks.
6. __ No calculating diameters of circles.
It's past eleven at night and I have done none of these things. I'm feeling incredibly self-actualized.
Okay, maybe I can think of one awkward moment. Actually, I can think of two. The first one was puberty. The second one happened just a couple of weeks ago:
I went to get a professional massage after a rehearsal one day in Ottawa because my friends were going. Dave said it would help me sleep better, acting as a cure to the insomnia that kept me up all night the week before. Alex thought it might help my cello playing because of all the relaxing shoulder work. They both agreed that, no matter what, I would feel ten times better. Their enthusiasm was such that it made me wonder whether I had underestimated the benefits of a proper massage and whether my happiness here on Earth had been missing this crucial supplement the entire time prior.
I don't know why I'm trying to justify why I went to get a massage. Maybe it's because when we walked in, we had to fill out forms, and the names of our masseuses were already at the top of the sheets. Maybe it's because Dave and Alex got girl names. And mine said Riccardo.
I had never given too much thought to the profession of male masseuses. All I know is that, if getting a massage from someone of the same sex is awkward, it's worse when his name is Riccardo. Though Riccardo, as it turned out, wasn't an exotically dark, tall, muscular man, but a bookish, skinny guy with a friendly overbite. He looked like he was really good at quadratic equations, if you know what I mean.
The first thing he did was assess my posture. He told me to stand with my back against the wall. It was here that he told me one of my hips was abnormally higher than the other. I wasn't sure exactly how to take this, but it definitely explained why I wasn't better at dancing.
Five minutes pass and here I am with my shirt off, I'm lying on this table, a guy called Riccardo is massaging my back, and nobody's saying anything. Completely quiet. It's like we're both wondering how this happened. The thing that gets me at this point is that this isn't the best massage I've ever had. In fact, the way he's digging his fingers into my back is borderline annoying. (Incidentally, the entire massage thing was never rewarded; I left feeling no better than when I arrived.)
Then he mutters something like, "Um, if you'd turn around, I'd like to focus on your chest."
And I'm like, "You want to what?" Nobody has ever said this to me. In the history of my existence, these words have never been brought together and directed at me. No one focuses on my chest and likes it.
"A lot of the problems we have in our upper back is because of injured muscles in our chests," he explains.
He starts massaging my right pectoral muscle, right beside my armpit. It really hurts for some reason, too. If it was awkward before lying on my stomach, it's ten times worse now on my back. It's like being at the dentist but, unlike at the dentist, you totally don't feel comfortable closing your eyes. I mean, you're already lying there without your shirt on a matted bed with Riccardo all up in your grill. So much so that we make eye contact by accident a few times and quickly look away. He's trying to focus on the muscle, to not make any eye contact, and be professional. I'm trying not to laugh, puke, or die.
7. __ No massages from men.
|
