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| - Let me tell you about the time I got my ass kicked at a foot spa.
The beatings, I mean, the massages that I received here can be described as yoga meets UFC. My friend and I came here to relax, but I found myself in a world of pain and wanted to tap out and throw in the towel before my one hour was finished.
The spa is reminiscent of a large warehouse that stores old Asian furniture, as opposed to a sanctuary of relaxation. It also didn't smell like a spa. Generally, spas have wonderful, calming scents. The odor that lingered in the air was a familiar, musty funk that reminded me of giving my dog a bath.
Without saying a word, my friend and I were led to one of the sectioned off spaces where there were two massage tables. Our masseuses arrived with buckets of hot water and placed them by our feet. Mine gestured for me to place my feet into the bucket, and she had me lie back. She massaged my scalp, legs, arms, feet, back, and shoulders, which had some tight knots that she worked hard to loosen. Her attempts caused me so much pain that I felt it days after my session.
Throughout the hour, my arms, legs, and back were pulled in all sorts of positions and beaten by my masseuse's hands and elbows. At some point, she lifted me up by my arms as though she was trying to force me to do the worm on the massage table. She gave a chuckle and spoke to her coworker in a foreign language.
I heard people shuffling down the hall; I saw doors being opened and closed, letting in blinding sunlight; and I overheard a male customer say: "yeah, you don't look bad yourself" to one of the female employees. Such a soothing environment.
Once the torture session was over, we walked out and paid the 20 bucks as our masseuses stood next to the side of the checkout counter and listened for how much tip they would each receive -- AWKWARD. My friend's thanked her. Mine didn't, though I generously tipped her 10 bucks for all the beatings I endured.
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