Thought I found a way to get one of my tawdry bourgeois pleasures paid for when the chiro recommended a massage from a therapist that works out of her office. Supposedly covered by insurance, etc. But instead of a day at the spa this was bootcamp. First, I walk in, wearing my calm brow induced by the swoony sandalwood smell given off by the office, its furniture and people, extend my hand to this erect spit of a woman who immediately commences in manually adjusting my stance while mirroring for my instruction a grotesque contortedness that apparently is my normal standing posture. This until I feel like an overcombed second grade class photo. After subduing my pesky trapezius onto the table and readying myself for a little relax, I'm told that I’m a rabbit- like the one that hid behind a tree to escape the hunter and held its breath so as not to be heard. The story concludes with the rabbit essentially imploding from the combined lack of oxygen/circulation and its coursing adrenaline. I beg your pardon? Breathe! She commanded and executed some eagle claw kung fu move on my heart. Interesting sensation, chakra rug burn. Feeling slightly more pliant but the lectures continue: you’ll have to learn to walk all over again. I like new age pillow talk as much as the next guy, but by now I really wanted to assert that it’s just a crick in the neck from a cat nabbing my pillow in the night and please please let me dig in peace the pre-renaissance boyz2men issuing from one sandalwood-scented boombox.