My Groupon: Deep-Tissue Issues

Did you know a masseuse is always a woman?

I found that out this afternoon when I asked the guy, a 250-pound side of beef, how long he'd been one.

"Massuer. I'm a masseur. A masseuse is a woman."

Oh, god, please don't hurt me, I thought to myself, realizing I was in his hands--literally--for the next 75 minutes.

I don't know what I was expecting, but I didn't expect my masseur (see, I can learn) to look like a retired All-Star wrestler.

Hey, when you live by the Groupon, I suppose you occasionally die by the Groupon, too. And, heck, beyond first impressions, I had 75 minutes of what I hoped was pure muscle-melting glory waiting for me...and all for a lousy $30!

And melt they did.

Apparently, this guy takes his deep-tissue massages seriously.

At times, he was Cato to my Clousseau, beating the ever-loving heck out of my tissue which, apparently, had been very VERY bad! Yet, I remained stoically silent. It wasn't that I didn't want him to hear me whimper. I just wanted to take it all in as a mostly silent observer.

I have to admit that I found it a bit fascinating.

Halfway through, he had worked out every knot my shoulders had ever recalled having, plus a few extras, just for good measure. By then, despite the methodical drubbing I'd taken, I was growing a bit fond of him.

Perhaps I'd developed a massage-induced case of Stockholm Syndrome.

The guy eased up for the rest of the massage, and he proved himself a bit of a gentleman as well, barely batting an eye as his big hands passed over my rough-hewn heels and half-shaved legs.

When it was all over, he told me a bit about himself, while I tried to sit up without vomiting. He turned out to be a rather decent guy, having fallen in love with his new career, following a lifetime of cement work. I am always glad to give my money to someone who does his work with such passion.

And, by golly, the guy really knows his muscles.