Tanks! Tanks! Tanks!

A funny thing happened on the way to Wednesday.

"The masseuse? Again?"


I lie face down pretty much naked on a massage table set up in our dining room.

He tells me to hold still and then flicks a needle into my back.

I count 12 needles in all.

He shines a heat lamp on my lower right back.

"Say 'hot' when the heat exasperates you."

[minutes later]


He shifts the lamp so that it shines on my middle right back.

We repeat this little endurance exercise until I'm golden brown.


Midway through my 30-minute "workout," the masseuse's phone rings.

He steps outside (into our backyard) to answer, leaving me helpless in a buffet carving station tableau.






Needles removed, the back massage commences.

"Ev-er-y-vere tight," remarks the masseuse, sounding more like Count Von Count than a bald middle-aged Chinaman.

"Ev-er-y-vere tight…"

He assaults my spine repeatedly, apparently intent on extracting information from me.

Like the area behind the knee where hamstrings and calf muscles merge, having your spine massaged will never be relaxing.

Especially when knuckles are involved.


Near the end of our session, the masseuse begins kneading my right butt cheek.

I'm not sure how to react.


A jaunt to my left butt cheek soon follows.

My mother asked Dr. 'Sseuse to return on Friday for one last session before flying home to Beijing.


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