JANUARY 5 — It’s quite something to get a nice massage. And before anyone goes all “yellow brain” on me, no, it doesn’t involve any sort of happy ending.
I can’t quite remember when I started, but for years I’ve been an avid fan of getting a good rub down.
It really helps iron out the kinks from a couple of weeks of craning my neck in front of the computer, secure in my belief that whatever grammatical or typographical error in a story would suddenly become evident by my mimicking a long-necked bird.
So you can imagine my delight when I came across a cheap package deal on a certain discount website, offering two hours and 15 minutes of massage and spa treatment at a relatively posh establishment in Petaling Jaya.
Without hesitation, I clicked on the link, put in my order and paid the RM58 fee (Hot dang! A 75 per cent discount! Or at least that’s what the promo claimed).
I was quite proud of myself for making an “intelligent” decision to buy a deal that would have made me poor if it was going by the normal price.
Fast forward a week later, after having booked a session to redeem my voucher over the weekend, I find myself in a rather large room with a shower and a whirlpool bath the size of a 5-tonne truck bed.
The masseuse comes in, we exchange pleasantries and she passes me a pair of disposable undies which she told me to put on. Fairly normal stuff.
The change done, she comes back and then tells me to lie face down on an elevated massage bed, as per the usual, except it was wrapped in plastic. Eh? Errr... okay then.
For some odd reason, her demeanour suddenly became a bit more authoritarian as she told me “don’t move your leg.” And out of the blue I feel this cold sludge slapped on the back of my thigh.
And she begins to rub. Vigorously. And progressively all over my exposed skin.
I was concerned, probably felt a little violated, but reassured myself that having your skin covered with thousands of miniscule tears was all part of the plan.
Apparently satisfied with her handiwork, the masseuse then told me to flip over and I was shocked to see what she had done. What is this... stuff!?
“Body scrub lah,” she said flatly.
Oh.
Embarrassed at my obvious over-reaction, I decided to just lie my head back down and feign pleasure at having several thousand more microscopic cuts cover the front of my body.
That session was also the first time I ever had my ears candled—if that is even the proper way of describing it—but otherwise the rest of the time was fairly normal massage stuff.
The experience, however, reminded me of one very, very important habit that everyone should have — read the damn fine print.
Also, I now know what it feels like when a slab of meat is given a dry rub before being put on the spit.
* This is the personal opinion of the columnist.
