Massaging Hairless People Would be Cool

I've often thought it would be cool to be a masseuse. It's a little known fact to most of you, but I give a great massage. It's outstanding. People queue up - friends, family...others - and give rave reviews. I was once the office masseuse. Get your mind out of the gutter - I was 19 and worked with lots of girls. Now get your mind out of the lesbian porn section. Anyway, I give a cracking massage. End of.

So in my fantasy life, I think about being a masseuse. Somewhere in my Neolithic brain I think this would be easier than my current job (it's probably not), and more bohemian and cool (it probably is).

Today I had a pedicure - a hugely expensive pedicure in a proper salon as opposed to a walk-in shop resembling a front for a 'happy-ending' parlor, or one run out of the back of an alley-way van. Part of the experience, which cost roughly 3/4 of one week's groceries, is a massive leg and foot massage. Not massive because my legs are massive. Massive as in long. And intense. Maybe my legs are a bit massive. Chubby? European? I should stop talking. Well, typing. I'm typing but you're hearing the words in your head, and if you know what I sound like then it's just like I'm talking. What?

Anyway, I had this combo massive massage-pedicure thing going on. My pedicurist was petite - and had the hands and upper body strength of a long shoreman, or maybe a career meat packer. About halfway through an agonizing calf massage I begged her to stop. I was assured this would "feel better later." Later? As in when she's done? How much later? What if I only have two hours to live? Will I feel better by then? Not surprisingly, she did not appreciate these questions.

And before you begrudge me my mid-Monday pedicure, it was doctor ordered. Seriously. At any given time I'm roughly 30 minutes away from being put in a quiet corner to stitch up moccasins with my imaginary friend Chet and his undeniably real pet monkey, Xanadu. Xanadu, not bound by the human shackles of "sanity" would of course stitch his moccasins with boundless creativity and flair. He would go on to be a fashion sensation, making headlines with his Fall 2012 collection at NY Fashion Week, further demoralizing Chet and me, causing our tenuous grip on reality to slip further.

So when my therapist ordered me to take time off from work, check in with her regularly, get sleep and pick up some funny little pills, I added to the list: go shopping, spend a day at the beach, get a pedicure, cease emotional breakdown begun roughly 48 hours ago, and knock over a liquor store. I'm sure she'd agree with that list - well, most of it. Maybe 4/5 of it. Whatever.

Back to the agonizing relaxation that was my blue chip pedicure. In the midst of the whole thing, I figured I needed to become a masseuse. It was my duty, not only to my feet but to the feet, legs and unsuspecting body parts of the masses. Holy shit - the masses. I'd have to touch the masses. The inevitably hairy, greasy, lumpy masses. I'd need a masseuse clause. For me to touch you and deliver my masseusely duties, you need to be hairless. And not greasy. Or lumpy. Damn. Maybe I'll just risk the breakdown.