kneaded some love.

I’m not the pampery type. The thought of a stranger rubbing his or her digits all over my bare skin has always been far from tempting. Last Thursday, I momentarily forgot this. I let a friend sucker me into my first massage session with two words: “my treat.”

“I’m a lover,” my masseuse reassured me as she swooped over the bed, pantomiming the press and pull she was about to conduct on my body. “I get so into it—so close. No one’s complained yet. I just have so much love to give!” She dimmed the lights, whispering, “There, that’s better. Just slip out of your clothes and under the covers—I’ll be right back.” Before closing the door, she winked at me.

A thickset, fifty-something woman batted her lashes at me, right after dishing instructions to get naked and wait for her.

I don’t think so, lady.

Despite my instinctive desire to run-run-run, I stayed. The heated bed lulled me into immobility. My masseuse slipped back in, but I didn’t hear her. She worked her palms firmly over my shoulders, down to my love-handles. Felt like she was kneading dough. Felt. So. Good.

“I hate to wake you,” my masseuse cooed an hour later. “You look like a princess, or an angel. How do you feel?”

“Mmgoodnice...mhmm.”

In other words, I’d definitely enlist the matronly “lover” as my every-morning masseuse. Or at least I would if I was making bank. Unfortunately, babysitting money can’t go that far. Unfair life.