No, the title isn’t a typo – I mean my BFF, not my BF (though that would be nice too – cough-cough).

My best friend is a Registered Massage Therapist. This means that I am contractually obligated by the ancient BFF standards to pay her to rub my poor, aching, hunched over computer-shoulders.

I love massages and am happy to pay someone to rub my body. I’m also lucky enough to work for an employer that covers most of this under my medical benefits – and thank God, because being short and working at a computer all day do not go hand-in-ergonomical-hand.

I used to get my massage on at a spa at Yonge and St. Clair. There was a girl there who was amazing, but once she was sick and they subbed in a guy who kept commenting on my amazing “swimmers’ legs.” Flattery is great, but it’s a bit creepy when they’re rubbing you down. Also, I can hardly do a doggy-paddle, so he might also be a bit delusional. Aside from too much talking in massages, they can also get expensive – understandably, people want a lot of money to touch your bod for an hour, even when you have wonderful swimmers’ legs like me.

Fortunately, my best friend Rachel had just finished up her RMT training. The pros were three-fold:
House calls? Check.
Massages that were half the price of a fancy spa? Yes please.
Wine out of a straw while my shoulders are being worked? Well why the heck not.

As you can see from the above, what could possible be bad about this? Oh wait – how about the fact that Rachel and I never touch. Ever. We’ve been friends for ten years and only hugged twice – once before we left for university, and the other time when my boyfriend made us (not as creepy as it sounds), and that was awkward, more awkward than the time a Jehovah’s Witness came to my door the morning after I lost my virginity.

Since we don’t even hug, you can see how the idea of her doing nothing but touching me for 60 minutes might be weird.

I might need some more straw-wine.

~ Shannon M