Some of my clients have been with me for as long as I’ve been beating butt. Maddie came into my pop stand the first year I had it and tentatively scheduled a half hour since she had never had a massage before. I wasn’t busy yet and feeling generous, and I just took the pay for half a session and gave her the works. It worked. A marriage, a college age son, and several jobs later, she still comes down from across the state line when she gets too many Fritos.
Fritos, you ask? Well, back in the day, she asked me what the crepitus was that you could feel and hear when I went over her levator scapulae (evil, shallow bands of muscle that anchor the lower neck to the shoulder blades, turning them into earrings). “Couple bags of Fritos you stashed in there, I figure,” I said, deadpan. Ever after, she would arrive for her appointment telling me she was beset with Fritos.
A few appointments ago it was no different; some people just build up cross-linking and calcification in their stressed muscles. In a prone massage coma, she was trying to tell me that the snap, crackle, pop was even louder than usual, only she was pretty stoned and it came out “crapple pops.”
Which immediately gave us both the dissolute and helpless giggles as we imagined the least appetizing Halloween treat ever to be invented.
Now all she has to do is say “Crapple Pops” in a helpless, stuttering titter, and I go off too, and it takes a minute or two for us to get properly back to work.
I have a weird job.