Mr. Noodle's Sister, Miss Noodle
Tonight, for the second time this month (the third, if you count my annual gynecological exam at the end of October, and DON'T YOU LOVE THE WAY THIS POST IS SHAPING UP ALREADY?) a stranger asked me to take off all my clothes. This time the occasion was pretty much the exact opposite of the last time I had to undress in a soothing pink room: I finally cashed in last Christmas's gift certificate for a one-hour massage.
And oh, was it heavenly. I was a little nervous going in, as the massage parlor (are they still called massage parlors, or is that a euphemism for something bad?) was in the back of a swanky hotel's fitness center, which was populated with sweaty, muscular men on treadmills. I made it safely past the Schwarzeneggers, but it made me wonder: what if my massage therapist turned out to be a swarthy, Fabio-haired Italian man? Would an attractive, manly masseuse make the experience more or less relaxing?
I still can't answer this, as my massage turned out to be administered by a petite older lady, chatty as a hairdresser, in a teensy tinesy room with a lavender-swathed ceiling and an bird-and-ocean-sounds cd that made me feel utterly relaxed even as it made me also feel a little bit like I had to pee. The massage was wonderful, and now I am limp as a noodle, loose as a goose.
I had more to say, but I've got to get this sucker posted before midnight, and I am just too relaxed right now to wrap this up with any sense of urgency.
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