Recently I went to one of those Chinese foot massage places that seem to be springing up everywhere.  You may have seen these places--storefronts on busy city streets, or even in strip malls in suburbia.  In fact, I do believe that Chinese foot massage has become the newest dirty little secret among suburban housewives.  Oh yes, it’s right up there with Botox and lip injections.  Come on ladies, you did not go from having regular sized lips to having two Ball Park Franks on your face without a needle having been involved.  And for the record, while we are on the subject, people’s boobs DO NOT get bigger after having kids.  Saggier and droopier maybe, but not bigger and firmer.  You know what makes breasts bigger and firmer?  Implants.  The jig is up.

Back to the guilty pleasure on which nobody can tell you’ve been indulging.  No, not that…massage!  Now, I have had many a massage at your regular over-priced spa.  You know the kind, the ones that have the fluffy robes and slippers, where you wait for your masseuse in a tranquil waiting area with fountains and orchids and relaxing music, the kind that serves “detox tea” (it’s probably Lipton), and puts cucumbers and lemon in the iced spring water (no doubt tap).  Well, the place I went the other day was a whole different kind of experience.

Firstly let me say that my friends have been to this particular massage parlor, and had given it rave reviews.  Of course this was over cocktails and jokes about how the women who frequent the place affectionately refer to it as “Me Love You Long Time”.  I was hoping this had less to do with how intimately I would be massaged and more to do with the fact that you get a whole lot of rub down for 30 bucks.  Yes.  That’s all it costs for 80 minutes.  What did I have to lose (aside from 30 bucks)?

I decided to give it a whirl.   First of all, the place was packed.  Maybe it’s not such a secret after all.   There was a main room, nothing interesting about it if you consider 25 bark-a-loungers lined up five to a row to be boring.  I was escorted to a different room, one slightly darker with a wall fountain and fabric screens separating the patrons.  This added level of privacy was reserved for the big spenders who had plunked down a whole 30 bucks like I had.  Instead of bark-a-loungers there was a single row of narrow cots, each with a little ottoman at one end and a plastic dishpan at the foot of it.  I was escorted to one, but given no further instruction.  I would have peeked around the curtain to see what position the other patrons were taking, and whether they were clothed or not, but I didn’t want to seem nosy.  So I just stood there awkwardly waiting for my masseuse.

I envisioned a petite Asian woman with tiny hands and a gentle touch coming to tenderly release some of the stress I’d been carrying around in my shoulders and lower back.  What came around the curtain was entirely different.  First of all he was a man.  While he was Asian, he was far from petite.  He was very large actually.  Judging from the smell of garlic on his breath he must have been a good eater, or at least a recent eater.  Every now and then he’d burp and I’d get a good whiff of whatever that was he was digesting.  Far cry from the lavender and eucalyptus at the spa at the Four Seasons.

He maneuvered me onto the ottoman and put my feet into the dishpan.  A quick foot scrubbing later and the “foot massage” portion of the Chinese foot massage was over.  Why people insist on referring to these places as “foot massage parlors” I do not know.  There were still 78 minutes left on the clock and my feet never saw any more action.  The rest of me got quite the rub down.  After instructing me to lie down on the cot the real massaging began.  This guy was nothing if he wasn’t thorough.  He didn’t miss an inch of my body, except for my lady parts of course.  Apparently butts are not lady parts by the way.   Seriously—I think he rubbed the insides of my sinuses.

So he wasn’t a woman, he wasn’t petite, and he was not at all gentle.  If this guy had a license (and I’m saying IF), then it must be from the Marquis de Sade School of Massage.  He dug in deep I tell ya.  He got under places I didn’t know one could get under.  He used every method of massage I’d ever experienced and then some.  He went all Swedish and deep tissue on me, and then switched to Thai, pulling my arms and legs out of their sockets practically, and then for the piece de resistance he threw in a little surprise chiropractic move that cracked every vertebrae in my neck.   I was completely at his mercy.  I couldn’t decide whether I hated it or loved it, but before I knew it my 80 minutes were up and I had to get down off that cot and straighten my tank top and sweat pants (this massage is done fully clothed, another first for me) and stumble out of the soothing darkness into the blinding mid day sunlight and the noise of Ventura Boulevard.  I felt like a mop that had been put through the ringer.

I don’t know if I’ll go back.  I took one of their punch cards just in case.  Yes, they have punch cards just like frozen yogurt shops do.  Buy 10 get one free.  So if I go there eleven times, the cost per massage is even cheaper.  You know what?  It is just like the frozen yogurt shop.  Only instead of saving money there, I am saving calories—at the rate of 150 per serving I’d say.  No, it’s not the same, but it’s a little less guilty of a pleasure than full fat ice cream.  So even though it’s not my favorite, I go there.  When I have a sweet tooth, it gets the job done.  If I wanted to be thrifty, I could apply this philosophy to massage.  Maybe I’ll hold on to that punch card after all.