I went to get a massage today, because I got an email special. I'd never used this guy before, and he was really, really good. His background was in physical therapy, so he really knew his stuff. Unfortunately, he was quite a talker, which I don't like. You are rubbing my calloused, rough, disgusting feet, my hairy legs, and navigating gobs of fat to get to the parts you're supposed to fix. I do not want to hear about your plans for the evening. Let's save the humanizing for after I'm dressed. But he was so good, I'd overlook the chattiness.
I did like the talking he did about what was going on, though. At one point, he was rubbing my upper arm, and he said, "Is this tender?"
"Have you been moving, carrying something?"
"Oh, because you have a tear right here. A workout tear. A perfect one, actually, for rebuilding muscle."
*Cue the music in "Forrest Gump where the braces fall off his legs*
Then, later, he was rubbing my thighs, and he said, "Is this tender?"
"Side to side lunges?"
"Well, I haven't been doing THOSE."
"Oh, who does?"
He said I should start stretching them, though. Also said I should come back soon, because my back is a nightmare. He said the two sides feel like two totally different people, and that the knots in it are reversible, but not in an hour. Ah, well. At least I have a workout tear.