While I love the regular, old-fashioned Swedish massage with a passion, I can't justify the cost. A cheap massage runs over $60, and then there's the pesky tip to be left. If I were to get a massage every time I wanted one, we'd be eating beans and living in a shack on the wrong side of town just to support my habit. You can imagine how well that would go over with the rest of the family.
Since my feet have become a bit cranky in my old age, I decided on a whim to Google "foot massage" one day. Imagine my surprise when I found a place that specialized in rubbing feet! And to top off my excitement, I found it was less than half the price of a regular massage!
I made an appointment, and headed straight to the establishment after work.
"Gonna get my feet rubbed, gonna get my feet rubbed!" I sang to myself as I parked the car. I couldn't wait!
I entered, and noticed the room was almost dark, save for the receptionist desk. I let her know I was there, and she guided me back to one of about thirty large, velour-covered chairs. I sat down, took off my socks and shoes, and soon a woman appeared. In her hands she held a woven bucket with a plastic liner, filled with hot water and something else that floated around my feet. I know now it was probably tea and herbs, but it freaked me out a little at first.
She had me sit back in the chair while still soaking my feet, and she lowered the back of the chair to a reclining position. Then began the journey.
She rubbed shoulders, face, ears, and head while I died and went to heaven. For fifteen solid minutes she concentrated on eradicating every inch of my head and shoulders that might have tension.
And then she started on my feet.
Washing them in the bucket and drying them off, she wrapped one in a towel while she commenced work on the other. And all the tension she had so carefully worked to vanquish in my shoulders came back with a vengeance.
Because, dear friends, she was killing me softly by using her knuckles and strong fingers to try to poke holes in the bottom of my feet. Some of the places she hit were extremely sore, and it was those she concentrated on. I thought I heard her snicker with pleasure every time she elicited a groan from me, but I could be mistaken. At times I had to stifle a soft scream.
I was PAYING for this?
She worked on my feet for what seemed like a sweet forever. In truth, it was probably thirty minutes. By the end of the contortions, my feet, although a little sore, felt like jelly.
The next step was to have me roll over on my stomach so she could pummel, knead, stretch, pound, karate chop, and walk all over my back.
OH. MY. WORD.
Just thinking about it makes me happy.
Suddenly, she stopped.
She said something to me I could not translate, but it sounded like "Hyphenee." I took it to mean I was to continue to relax for a bit until I was ready to get up and leave.
So I did.
Then the receptionist came over and said, "Excuse me? Ma'am? You are finish."
Ah! "Hyphenee" was actually "I finish!" I get it.
Feeling like I had just survived being run over by a truck and come back alive, I rose and put my socks and shoes back on my feet. I thanked my lady, paid, and left.
Would I willingly submit to this torture again?
IN A HOT. NEW YORK. SECOND!!!
As a matter of fact, I've been back three times since then. This has become my new love!