the ocean

Every year, Ian gets me a gift certificate to a massage place for my birthday. It's a really thoughtful gift, as I enjoy getting massages but rarely actually get motivated to schedule them. And since I am terrible at relaxing, it's nice to be forced to lie in a darkened room where I can't check my email or text messages for a while. I've actually even fallen asleep during the massage a few times. And if I can pass out without the aid of alcohol when I'm nude in a small room with a stranger who is in an excellent position to strangle me if he so desires, that's really saying something. 

I do have some small quibbles with some massage "techniques," however. First, telling a person over and over again that they need to relax has never, ever caused that person to actually do so. I personally tense up to the approximate rigidity of a two by four when I hear that. Second, your assignment is massage; any comments about, say, my diet, my medications, or my overall lifestyle are outside the scope of that. Third, I do not think elbows should enter the massage equation. They are universally pointy. And finally, I can tell time. If you want to rip me off by ending early, that's your prerogative, but don't act like I'm not going to notice. 

Anyway, that's a lot of thoughts about something fairly unimportant. Next time I'll write up a thorough plan for passing comprehensive immigration reform, I promise.