Yesterday I got a massage. I’ve had hundreds over the years so it was nothing new, per se, and to be sure, I am definitely a massage connoisseur. I know what I like and I know what I don’t; I am also completely unapologetic for reaching that self-aware benchmark as well as the ability to decide I’m going to spend money on them – frequently. All this is rationalized, of course, under the 3-fold heading of I work hard, waited forever to get one, and paying a total stranger to rub you down is illegal in a lot of countries, so God bless America.
Now, there are not only myriad reasons my back is as messed up as the 2016 Presidential line-up, but also a ton of local places from which to choose to receive a decent massage. The question yesterday was one of timing. I had a two-hour window that would work and a two-hour window only.
Yay me. America is gonna be blessed times two.
Way to go, new guy. Improving upon prior horrible customer service renders two thumbs up and a hard-to-summon-lately smile from one knotty, massage-ready traffic violator.