For the sake of symmetrical forearms, masseuses have navigated their business model towards the more apt sad endings.
What’s the point of hitting the sidewalk in a good mood after a massage if the world is gonna cut you down to size anyways? Sad endings ensure before we step foot out of that parlor our cups of dread are already filled to the brim and our beggar’s cup of change is half empty not half full. Maybe we too, should be at the traffic light professing the need for change.
What is a sad ending, you ask. We had our traveling journalist go undercover to give you a glimpse on this new era-appropriate service:
I’m in Miami. Naked. Face down on a cushioned table with a hole for my face so I can stare at rock bottom while blind to the glass ceiling above. I’m vulnerable to the whimsical mechanisms of a stranger who could just as easily stab me in the back as untie the gordian knots that have nestled into the cords of my muscles. This is supposed to be relaxing? She plays soft jazz, just loud enough to muffle my screams if I’m smothered by a pillow. Incense glow orange, the trailing smoke lets off a hint of cinnamon, strong enough to overpower the smell of my fear.
I hear lathering. Moist moist lathering composed of half aloe, half omen. Then impact. Battle-hardened iron fingers knead into the sinews of my flesh forcing the shuffling of tectonic plates looking to separate mature continental muscles of stress to form new islands of hope. I clench my teeth baring the humiliation of a man who let his guard down.
“Been doing this for a while?” I ask.
“Huh?”
“I said, have you been doing this for a while?”
“No, we just started, sir.”
“No, I mean like the profession. How long have you been a masseuse?”
“I’ve been a masseuse as long as I can remember.”
“How long can you remember?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“I good one unless you have Alzheimer’s.”
“Sir. Your muscles are so tense. Like concrete hours away from the final hardening.”
“That’s called flocculation.”
“What?”
“In concrete. Flocculation is the process of hardening.”
Her hands continue to knead resistant dough. “We don’t want your muscles to harden.”
“Me neither but at this point I feel it’s inevitable.”
“Didn’t you come here to relax?”
“I came here because my Christmas bonus was threatened and increased office hours were implied.”
“You gotta try and relax. It’s all in your head.”
“Well yeah it’s all in my head. What other organ am I supposed to make stuff up with?”
For the length of the hour-long session, we remain in this parry and joust. Through the skilled melodic chords of her fingers, she tempts to soothe my aches and pains. With the mighty shield of neuroticism and overthinking I hold this siren song of complacency at bay. Victorious, at the end of the session I remain tense and uncomfortable with the accustomed looming doom of a distraught world still clutching to my shoulder like a pirate’s parrot.
I sit up on the table. Fluffy white towel around my waist.
“I don’t usually offer this service but you seem like a special case.”
“Special? I’m not special. I’m a journalist, I feel like part of the job requirement is to make sure I’m not special.”
“I feel like you could really benefit from the release of tension. Would you like a happy ending?”
“A happy ending? A happy ending to what? Life? That’s not how life works.”
“To this session.”
“Oh that. I appreciate your professionalism but that doesn’t seem appropriate in this world we live in.”
“What?!?”
“Actually! Now that you mention it. Do you give sad endings?”
“A sad ending?”
“Yeah. Give me soundbites of doom and gloom while I get dressed.”
Her face contorts in a mixture of confusion, judgement, and disgust.
“I’ll pay an extra $50.”
A driven entrepreneur, she jumps to the challenge. “The planet is heating up. Global warming continues to rise.”
I slip my boxers on then shimmy into my jeans. “That just means you can practice hot yoga anywhere. You don’t need some expensive studio. Try again.”
“Your parents never loved you.”
“They write that in every Christmas card. Try again.”
“Your company doesn’t appreciate you. They use you like a workhorse.”
“I wish they saw me in that high regard. I feel like they see me as a workworm.”
“Your skin is really dry.”
Shirt half on, “wait, really?”
“You never moisturize, do you?”
“I sweat a lot. I thought that would be enough. Where does aloe naturally grow anyways? I don’t think my ancestors grew up within proximity, why would I evolve to need it?”
I pull socks up.
“You were the worst client I’ve ever had.”
“I would be surprised if I wasn’t.”
“You’ll never climb out of your mountain of debt.”
“You’re not supposed to climb out of debt, debt is like a blanket it keeps you warm at night,” I say while tying my right shoe then slip on the left.”
“Do you have any pets?” She asks.
“Yeah a cat.” I answer.
“What’s the cat’s name?”
“Mittens.”
“Mittens hates you.”
I falter mid-shoe tie; the bunny ears fall to pieces. “Seriously, you think so?”
“I know so.”
Sighing, “I always suspected…. see this is why I don’t come to spas; there’s some kind of witchcraft in the air. How is acupuncture a thing?” I stand up fully dressed, ready for the outside world.
“That was perfect,” I say while handing her a crisp $100. She puts it in her apron pocket. “So this may be overstepping but this sad ending has really worked wonders, want to get dinner? It’s on me.”
Dinner went on the company’s meal allowance.