It's been awhile since my last massage.
But life could be worse.
There are some who have never had one.
I realized this the other day when I passed a chalkboard that read "Table Massage" outside a Berkeley spa. I rushed home and into my kitchen. "Want a massage?" I asked A. Oak Table (**names have been changed to protect the innocent).
"Hey, no fair," said M. Marble Table. "Don't you remember what happened to me?"
How could I forget? On one of my first dates with A Certain Someone, we sat at M. Marble Table, eating spaghetti. I had placed a mason jar of tomato sauce between our two yellow plates. Suddenly, M. Marble Table split in two. The glass jar somersaulted through the air with the agility of a Cirque Du Soleil acrobat, landing right-side up on the floor, and taking a bow. A Certain Someone's plate flew into the air. The tomato sauce went splat all over his blue jeans.
My mother said that M. Marble Table was jealous; she was used to having me to herself.
"You owe me big time," M. Marble Table said to me.
"Okey-doke," I said, resting my hands on its top. "You win."
I wondered whether the masseuse would work on top, on the side, or on M.'s leg.
Or maybe it would be best to work under the table.
Causes Eva Schlesinger Supports
Center For Young Women's Development
Alameda County Library Foundation