Where it hurts

The first two (professional?) massages I've ever had were from women who were clearly nervous about doing it. The first told me that I had to keep this massage a secret because her boyfriend doesn't like it when she works on men (this was at a spa in Niagara Falls). On my second try, I spouted off a bunch of muscle aches I was having, to which she replied something in a Northern European language. But I decided to give it one more go today, since for the past week I've been OD'ing on muscle rub due to an overworked rhomboid (not the parallelogram.)

It was great. Strong hands. Lotsa conversing in English. Good job, Tamar.

Something was unleashed, though. On my drive home, struggling to find a radio station now that Indie 103.1 is gone, I turned to some goofy lunchtime show on a rock channel. And I could not stop LAUGHING at their inane banter. I mean "a-heul, a-heul-heul," Goofy-type laughing. Driver-next-to-me-watching laughter. It was a half-hour drive.

Also, I think the massage broke my kidney. Which is funny because it is ironic.