A Tense Encounter

My wife loves to lavish gifts on those she loves most.  And since I am, at the very least, in the running for the title “love of her life,” I often find myself as the beneficiary of her generosity.  My wife also takes great pleasure in her individuality, which spills over into her purchasing decisions with great frequency.  She’s been known to avoid trends and fads just for the sake of maintaining her individualistic integrity, even when doing so means going without something she would otherwise buy.  All this to say, when she buys you a gift, you can expect that it will be something you’re not expecting. 

Throughout our nearly 15 years of marriage, I’ve had regular bouts with both a stiff back and neck – a condition, it seems, that I picked up from years of sitting at a desk with my shoulders drooped to my knees and my head arched forward like a racehorse lunging for a finish line.  And while it’s not a very pleasant condition, to say the least, the remedy is actually quite a simple one, provided that I can find a willing accomplice.  A simple backrub, delivered with a little love and a firm grip, does the trick every time.  Early on in our marriage, I looked to my wife to provide such relief.  After all, she’s the most obvious choice, or at least it seemed at the time.  I naturally assumed that she possessed both the affection and the will to carry out the task of un-knotting my achy muscles.  I was wrong on both accounts.

It’s not that she doesn't possess the strength necessarily, it’s more, I believe, an issue of resolve.  My theory is that she sees no return on her investment of time and effort, given that 9 times out of 10, a good massage puts me to sleep within minutes.  Why rub on someone for a good 15 or 20 minutes only to put them to sleep and get nothing in return?  And while outright refusing my requests for a rubdown would demonstrate a severe lack of marital commitment, my wife maintains the illusion of caring by putting forth a minimal amount of effort when asked, giving the shortest and least effective massages known to man.  I once suggested that I’d be better off if she’d just place a half-dead fish on my back and let it flop about.  “At least I’ll have a fighting chance of some actual pressure being applied to my back for an acceptable duration of time,” I said sarcastically as I suddenly felt an enormous amount of unsolicited pressure all at once in the form of a slap to the back of my head.  Shortly thereafter, the massages ceased altogether, and we reached a comfortable medium.  I quit complaining about my back, and she quit pretending to care.  

And so, it was with great astonishment that I received a most unusual birthday gift from her, several years after the “dying fish” assault.  Several days prior to my special day, she announced, with no pretense of discretion, that I should plan to be home from 5 to 6 on my birthday, which translates into Christmas Eve Eve.  Not exactly sure of what she had up her sleeve, I questioned her until I had enough information to solve the riddle.  After several minutes of serious interrogation, I deduced that she had scheduled an appointment for me for an “at home massage”.  And while I very much appreciated the thought, this peculiar news was met with a great deal of skepticism.  I had no idea that masseuses made house calls, and the more I thought about it, the more I questioned the validity of the “massage” in question.  Fearing that my wife had misconstrued whatever advertisement that enticed her into this bizarre gift, I began to wonder what kind of services I would be getting and whether or not they were legal in the first place.  With my imagination running wild, I convinced myself that she had fallen prey to some horrible sting operation meant to catch solicitors of “at home massages”.  I pictured myself on an episode of Cops with my face blurred out being handcuffed and escorted to the backseat of a patrol car in nothing but my underwear on Christmas Eve Eve, of all days.  So I pressed for more information in a desperate attempt at avoiding a life of imprisonment.

I eventually discovered that I would, in fact, be getting a bona fide massage.  But in satisfying my curiosity, I opened up another can of worms.  Turns out that the masseuse, which I had naturally assumed was a woman, was actually a man.  And while that alone was enough to make me squirm, the real kicker came when I discovered that the man was someone I knew and went to church with.  And there it was.  I was not only scheduled to get a complete, one hour rub down from a man, I would have to see that man every week for Lord knows how long.  How would I ever be able to make eye contact with him again?  Suddenly seeing myself on Cops was not the most unpleasant scenario I could think of.  While wanting to sound grateful, I inquired as to the likelihood of getting a full refund.  “I’d really like to get something for you with that money instead,” I said as I grasped at the only straw I could find.  “That is what would truly make my birthday a happy one.”  She didn’t take the bait.

Sensing my apprehension, however, she quickly assured me that everything was going to be okay.  She told me there was nothing weird about the situation, and while I wanted to believe her, my imagination wouldn’t allow me that luxury.  Eventually, however, I acquiesced.  After all, she had truly done something selfless for me, and the least I could do is graciously accept – even if it challenged my manhood.

Christmas Eve Eve arrived after an unusually lengthy amount of time, and I had gradually grown tenser by the moment.  The hours I had spent thinking about the awkward present had knotted every ounce of muscle and tissue in my neck and back into a spindly mass of knotted chaos, and as the clocked ticked closer to 5 on that dreadful day, the pain became excruciating.  At 4 o’clock, my wife announced it was time for her to "start getting ready".  “Get ready for what?” I asked.  

“I’m going shopping so you’ll have a more relaxing experienced,” she said with no shred of humor in her voice.

I can’t remember my exact words, or even the tone with which they were spoken, but I’m pretty sure I used profanity.  I was desperate and meant not to be left alone in the house with a male masseuse, even if it was someone I went to church with.  Determined, my wife resisted.  I finally pulled out a trump card.  “But this is my birthday present isn’t it?  What I want for my birthday is to not be left alone with a dude in my house with a case full of his own rubbing oils.”  She laughed for the first time since informing me of the massage, and I sensed, rightly so, that this whole dilemma was giving her a great deal of pleasure.  Nevertheless, she agreed to stay – partially, I think, because she knows I would have left shortly after her, had she gone.   I further convinced her to promise me that she would remain within eyesight of me the whole night.

When the masseuse arrived, he greeted me kindly and I did my best to return the favor.  He then asked where to set up his folding table.  Fearing that he was looking for a more private locale, I quickly pointed to a spot right next to the front door.  “How ‘bout right here?” I said as I choked down my apprehension over the thought of what was to come.  My wife laughed out loud at her idiot husband.  As he set up the table, he spoke of church and people we both knew.  This only made things more bizarre.  Somehow, if you’re going to get a rubbing at the hands of a guy, you shouldn’t talk of the familiar.  In fact, you should probably just not speak at all.

I slowly warmed to the idea of the massage (and by “warm” I mean going from about 30 below to maybe 20 below) as he began to apply pressure to my neck.  After all, the back of my neck is, when it’s all said and done, the one place I would allow a guy to rub me, if it were entirely up to me.  The problem is, when you start with the place you least mind being touched, there’s nowhere to go from there except down – literally.  I soon discovered I had not been signed up for a back and neck only massage.  No sir, that would have been far too inconsiderate of my wife who, as I said earlier, loves to lavish her unusual gifts on me whether I want them or not.  Instead, she anteed up for a full body rub.  Several times during the session, the male masseuse commented on how unusually tense I was.  “Huh,” I would reply, “that’s unusual.  I don’t feel that tense.”  Each time, my wife laughed out loud.  She became hysterical when he started working on my legs and nearly busted a gut when I suggested he focus more on my neck and back.  “The real problem area is more towards my neck,” I said, feeling confident he would change directions if given the right information.  “Actually,” he said with authority, “you’d be surprised at how tension in one part of the body can cause pain in other parts.”  He continued working his way down my leg, and I started to see his point.  The tension of the entire scene was causing me an enormous amount of pain in my ego. 

When it was all over, my male massaging friend said good-bye and went on his jolly way, though I refused to look him in the eye when he wished me a Merry Christmas.  But once he was gone, I was the most relieved I had been in years.  I thanked my wife who, by this time, was fully aware of the misery she had inflicted upon me.  She repaid me by taking me to a movie.  As a side note, I didn’t enjoy the movie either – my neck and back were locked up from all the tension of getting a male massage.