Rubbed the wrong way

So, I was visiting with a friend the other day, and she said something that I’m still having a hard time wrapping my mind around.
She said she had recently had a foot massage where someone manipulated her distal appendages for 90 minutes – per foot.
That’s three hours of having your feet rubbed!
If there was ever a First World concept, boy, this must be it.
Some Christians go for foot washing but even they draw the line at messing with someone’s feet for 180 minutes.
I come at this as a guy who doesn’t like massages. I have gotten no relief from the two that I’ve received over my almost 62 years.
The first was on my 25th wedding anniversary in 2000.
The Bride and I were in Mexico, and the resort offered free massages. (Yes, I realize that going to another country to celebrate an anniversary is also a First World perk.)
I said, “I guess,” and – after the all-clothes-on or various-pieces-off decision was decided (the latter won) – I came out 45 minutes later more relieved that it was over than any other feeling. Except that I was now exceptionally slickery, as we used to say.
My other massage was straight-up painful. Years ago in Austin, right after jogging past an Obama rally, my right calf muscle decided to try to rip in half.
(I don’t know if those two incidences are related, but I have had no calf issues since Trump hasbeen in office, MCGA [Make Calves Great Again. Ha! You can’t get that kind of contemporary political humor in just any small town column.].)
Bummed, I limped over to a nearby running store that offered free leg massages for those who had attempted to run around the Town Lake Trail (as it was known back then) while dodging hobos (as we called the homeless back then) and Secret Service agents (as they’ve always been called).
I laid down – clothes on – and a stout woman began, I feel certain, trying to actually remove the injured calf muscle.
It remains one of the greatest pains I’ve ever endured – right up there with watching Steel Magnolias.
She was brutal, and I finally asked the woman to stop hurting me. I limped out of there and have never been back.
I can’t imagine doing anything for three hours, much less letting someone rub around on my feet.
Now, my feet aren’t clawed or on backwards or anything like that. I just have better things to do than have them handled and contorted for three hours.
My friend said it was “glorious.”
I understand massages have their purposes, especially for folks who need them for handling muscle issues or other medical/disease instances.
I get that; I have arthritic fingers that go about 17 different directions. When I point, six people run off every which way.
So, in conclusion, if having someone work on your feet for 180 minutes – whether for medical reasons or if you happen to have an expiring gift card – more power to you.
You don’t have to worry about inviting me.

Mark K. Campbell is the Epigraph editor and the Bride thinks massages are the best things ever.