This Really Happened

One of the things I do for myself once a month (or when I have time) it get a massage. Its relaxes me, relieves tension, ya know its supposed to be quiet and you leave feeling all refreshed. I go to the same girl and I love her. So, Sunday when I showed up at noon and they told me she was sick, I was a little upset, but I had not been in a month and really needed this one so I took their replacement girl.

Things started off nice, she quickly found the ginormous knots in my back and shoulders and was really getting in there, and then she asked me what  I did. This inevitable happens when they realize I have HUGE knots in my back and hold all my stress in there. I told her I was an attorney and did civil work and thought ok then back to the quiet. And then she began to talk.

I hate a talking massage therapist. Ask me if the pressure is good, or if I am hot or cold, but I do not need to be engaged in conversation, this is not my nail place or the hair salon! But talk she did. And oh what I learned. It began innocently enough with her telling me her husband was familiar with law enforcement and the court system. Cop I figured. NO, no ladies, he is familiar because he is a criminal.

Yes for the next 80 minutes, 80! She told me about her husband's criminal past and brush with the court and penal system. How he shot a drug dealer in the leg because he owed him money. Oh and yes she did need to tell me it was in a "titty bar." Kid you not... she said those words during my message. I heard about his time in county lockup and his second offense for possession of a controlled substance. But perhaps the best part of this whole story was her recount of his time in the state penitentiary. She told me how he watched a guard have her throat slit from ear to ear, and about the psych evaluations that her husband received. Yes, this lovely therapist told me how her husband went in for a required psych evaluation and came out with a happy ending (though she was much more graphic than I was). Now, now ironically works for some company that refurbishes cop cars.

The whole time I am laying there, half-dressed nodding and  saying oh yeah?, umm hum, ok. I swear I felt like I was in some sort of TV show and Ashton was about to pop and out and say PUNK'D!. As I got up from the table I had no clue what to do. Do I tell management? Do I let it go? Do I tip her? And then I kept thinking, who tells someone all this and why me? Does my profession somehow warrant her to feel ok to tell me about her life story? So much for my relaxing 90 minutes, but hey I guess I know what they say about prison is true.

Have anything strange like this ever happened to you?