Wild Monkey Massage

monkey 1

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m game for trying almost anything— at least once. As you can imagine, this “live life to the fullest” practice gets me into a lot of messes.

There was that time when I climbed on top of a barbed wire fence, leaped onto the back of my neighbor’s horse, and tore off through the pasture like my hair was on fire giving no thought at all on how to stop a run-away 18-hand gelding. Consequently, I baled off in mid gallop. I hit the ground and bounced like a basketball.

Oh then there was the time that on a dare, I took my first shot of tequila. Never mind that I’d never tasted the amber fire before. I could handle it. My eyes watered, my throat burned raw, and my stomach disowned me. But, by God, I was damn cool! Even when the nasty stuff ran out my nose.

Or the time my nephew begged someone to ride the biggest Farris wheel of all time and because he wanted to ride so desperately and no one had the guts to go with him, I stepped up. Why? Because I’m cool Aunt Ruth. We got stuck at the top. My bladder screamed and died.

There are so many more examples. Such as the time I tore my blouse off, leaned half-way out the passenger side window of a pick- up truck and screamed at the top of my lungs. Down Main Street. In the rain. Sober as a judge. Crazy teen-ager? Nope. Mature 40+ woman.

As you can see I’m prone to acting first and thinking later. I will admit, however that the older I get the less I’m inclined to act so spontaneously. Well. Sometimes. It depends.

So you would think that having a massage would be no big deal. Kinda ho-hum.

But nooooooooooo!

I needed a massage the worst way. Working all day on a computer and writing all night, my neck, shoulders, back, armpits, kneecaps, and pinky toes were killing me. A friend of my recommended her massage place. I thought she said, “they massage your feet.” In reality she said, “they massage with their feet! Yep. You heard right.

I got a foot massage alright but not the kind you think.

The massage lady took me into a nice, dim-lit room, fan blowing, music playing. Oh boy. I was foaming at the bit thinking of how nice and relaxed I was going to be in about five minutes.

I didn’t see the rails attached to the ceiling until she pointed them out.

With a perfectly calm, straight face she informed me that she would hop up on the table, grab those monkey bars, and precede to massage my back with her own two feet.


With a perfectly calm, straight face, I replied, “Cool.”


The whole time she was up there hanging on to the bars running her feet all over my body, I was thinking up ways to kill my friend. At one point I felt her massage the back of neck right where the head and neck come together. It felt so good! Until I realized she was using her toes, not her fingers.


Then I wondered if she ever fell off the table. I mean her feet were slick with massage oil. Had she ever lost her grip and crashed to the ground? Would she refund my money? Did a bunch of crack-heads get high one night and think up this idea?

I have a great imagination so the whole time I was laying there I pictured her doing flips, hanging upside down, scratching her belly, eating a banana, throwing her poop. Whatever.

After the massage was over she asked what I thought. Oh boy. How could I tell her it was one of the most craziest, dumb-ass things I’d ever done? I calmly replied, “It was different.”

I booked another appointment.


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4 Responses to Wild Monkey Massage

  1. Um, Ruthie, I think mature might have a different meaning then you think. You may have been 40, but I’m not so sure about the mature part.
    You are a wild woman and that’s why I love you.

  2. Fearless, fiery Ruth! Show the rest of us how it’s done?

  3. Sally Fruchey says:

    Sounds kind of familiar. Riding pastured horses. Thinking about skating on thin swimming pool ice. Drinking cool-aid & wine punch. Etc.

  4. I’m not a bit surprised. That you rebooked, that is. About the monkey bar massage, that surprises me.

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