Kendallkasey's Blog

I walked into what was a normal massage with a normal guy. As far as personality goes, he was alright, nothing to write home about, or in this case, write in my blog about. I started on the right side of his back absent mindedly, finished up, then went to the right side. Before I began, he spoke.

“I have the biggest pain in my shoulder-blade on this side. It would be great if you could work it out.”

“I’ll see what I can do, okay?”

I started massaging the right side, and I came across a knot that felt so weird I got close to his back so I could see better in my dark room. I got a good look at the knot alright, a better look than I could have ever wanted! It was a zit the size of a soccer ball, and it was ready to go. This zit looked like a bunch of small zits that formed one large super zit. You could say it was the perfect storm of zits. The white head on that thing needed to be popped, and I was not the person to do it. I became a massage therapist, not an aesthetician for a reason, and the reason being I don’t do zits. I know a lot of women who love to get into people’s skin and pick out the blackheads, pop the white heads, and clean those pores – I’m NOT one of them.

I decided to work around the obstacle blocking my work space, but of course, it wasn’t that easy. He spoke again.

“You know, it’s like you’re working around the spot that really hurts. Could you focus more toward the middle?”

Why do these things happen to me? “Sure, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Well, I don’t know what you have to really see about. Can’t you just go toward the middle? I don’t think it’s that hard.”

I was going to have to tell him. How did he not know he had a gigantic growth on his body? I know it was on his back, but he had to have at least a clue it was there.

“I don’t know if you know this or not, but you have a blemish right where you need me to massage you,” I explained. I thought using the word blemish would make it easier to tell him, and it actually did.

“Oh, uh, blemish? What do mean?” he asked.

“A zit, I’m talking about a zit.” Now I was losing my patience, and I could hear it in my tone.

“Oh, well, if it’s about to go, can you just pop it for me? I really want to stop hurting.”

“Popping zits isn’t in my scope of practice,” I explained.

“Scope a what?” he asked.

“It’s not what I do. I didn’t sign up to pop zits. I don’t even like to pop my own zits, much less someone elses.”

“Ok, well, can you massage it?”

“No, I can’t massage the huge white head on your back that could go at any moment. I will massage the rest of your back, but the zit is NOT happening!”

“Fine, whatever” he said, sounding disappointed.

I continued the massage, he huffed and puffed until it got old and went back to regular breaths. Then, the unthinkable happened. A little pus started to leak out, and immediately I could feel myself holding back vomit. I really don’t do pus or any other bodily fluids for that matter, and with that being said, I cut the massage.

“Alright, you’re all set! The girls will check you out up front, okay? Great!,” I said as I walked out of the room, not waiting around for a protest or a good-bye. I knew for a fact a “thank you” was out of the question.

So, for those of you who have asked me if I have to massage people who have zits, there’s your answer.


{June 21, 2010}   Tinkle Tinkle Little Star

I think I’m pretty laid back when it comes to people and their behavior (I have to be in this line of work), but there are times when even I have to take a deep breath, curse so low my client can’t hear me, and just walk away before I haul off and hit them. There are so many types of people I deal with, it builds up my immunity to the weird, mean, gross and disgusting, but there are some times that all this immunity I have against the evil people makes no difference at all. They manage to get under my skin and annoy me so I never want to return to the office again, but sometimes they make me laugh so freakin’ hard I want to go back and see what happens the next day.

There’s this lady who really just rubs me the wrong way – ha, ha, ha. The way she moves, the way she talks, and what she says are just a few things that get under my skin. While lying on the table face down, she kicks her legs vigorously, her feet kicking so hard making the  most annoying sound over and over and over. There are times I almost scream “STOP KICKING YOUR LEGS, YOU JERK!!!” I haven’t done that yet, but God, I want to! She doesn’t stop talking from the time she walks in the office, never staying on one subject longer than a minute and a half. She tells me she has restless leg syndrome, but I want to ask her if she’s sure doesn’t have ADHD as well. All signs I see point to yes. Then, what she talks about I cannot write, but I will say this – it’s totally inappropriate for any age to read. She has the ability to offend any age, race, or gender, and she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. She was not taught that words have such an impact on people’s feelings.

So, you now know that I am writing about a woman who kicks her legs non stop, talks just as much as she kicks, and she talks about subjects totally off limits. Oh yeah, she talks really loud. Like, really, really loud. I’m massaging this woman one sunny afternoon, she was talking and would just not shut up, and I was not listening to her like I had grown accustomed to doing. Blah, blah, blah. Rub, rub, rub. I shorted her five minutes because she started running her mouth, and kicking her legs like she was swimming an olympic size swimming pool. I told her I was done and that I would meet her up at the front. I exited the room quickly, and then met the chiropractor I work with out in the hall.

He and I were talking about what she wanted to talk about, what I allowed her to talk about, and what I blocked out. As he and I were laughing, all of a sudden the door to the room she was in flew open and there she was holding the garbage bag that used to be in my trash can. She walked up to me and handed the bag without saying a word.

“You don’t have to take the garbage out,” I told her.

“Oh yes I do, trust me,” she said.

“Why? What did you do?” I asked.

“I peed in it,” she admitted.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I have wondered that for quite a while, and now after you peed in my trash can, I think I have enough of a reason to ask,” I said.

“I just couldn’t make it to the bathroom, that’s all,” she said.

“No, that’s not all. You have a problem. You can’t control your legs, your language, and apparently, you can’t control your piss. You will take that out to the dumpster. I’ll show you where it is,” I told her.

What the f%*k is wrong with some people? I could not believe I was looking at a garbage bag full of pee pee. A) The bag was one of those thin kind, so at any moment it could give way with what was once in her bladder. B) Most women have bad aim, and if you’re a woman you know by the condition of public toilet seats. Most likely she dripped yellow liquid all over the bag, inside and out, and I was not touching it.

She walked the bag out to the dumpster and did not walk back into the office – that day. She came back and wanted more massage. I’m not good at saying no so there she was, kicking and screaming. The piss never came up in conversation again, and she never took a piss in my bag again either.

et cetera