Massages are creepy. I know that the countless rub-down devotees are gasping at this moment. Sorry. I am just not a fan of strangers kneading my naked body, the smell of Patchouli incense or awkward silence being filled by heavy breathing. There is an intimacy involved in touching some ones body that I can’t get past, even though my masseuses have been nothing but professional. I have issues. I am aware.

If it counts for anything, I do like pedicures. Not when they hit the tickly part as they are scrubbing my scaly feet, but everything else. So, I decided that a foot massage would be bearable and maybe even relaxing. Not creepy at all.

A friend had raved about Jessie Jing’s and the price was right at only 25 bucks for an hour. It was my moms birthday and her favorite thing in the world is to spend time with her only daughter, I’m not bragging, but she loves me best. She didn’t say that, I just like to believe 😉

Reservations were made one day in advance for tootsie massages and my mom was all smiles when we arrived.

We were shown to two cozy chairs in a community massage room. Our feet awaited pampering.

We were soaked in a warm water bath for ten minutes and then the massage began. They paid attention to every millimeter of my barking dogs, it felt as if they were just given a bacon biscuit…grateful and content.

Amidst the luxurious treatment to my paws, this cut-out paper towel was laid out on my lap. Huh? Bewildered, thoughts clustered my brain. Am I suppose to know what to do with this thing?

Apparently, this massage wasn’t just limited to the lower extremities…enter…paper towel. After a half hour, we were flipped onto our bellies, paper placed to protect our face from touching the upper portion of the leather bed.

From here it turned into a “normal” all-over massage, no different from my previous experiences, minus the uncomfortable nagging in my mind. Could my feet be so calm that my brain didn’t realize that an unknown person was rubbing my body? Or was the thin layer of clothing a protectant against my insecurity?

It turns out that my anxiety likes to be dressed.