A few years back I got in this really bad car accident, it was like bumper cars except it was just me and a deer. Afterwards I was pretty messed up, one leg was longer than the other and my neck was over extended or something etc. So the insurance paid for everything and that included a Tempur-Pedic pillow, a back support, and a personal masseur (proper term for a man who gives massages professionally). His name is Yakoff, no joke, and he's very old and Russian. So every time I would get these massages I'd never know whether or not to get naked. The first time I just left my two necessary pieces on and sort of stood there. I didn't realize I was supposed to get under the sheet. "Ready?" he said, and without warning opened the door. When he saw me he shut it again and mumbled something about the sheet, so I willingly got under. "Ready?" he said again and came in. He then informed me that I was only supposed to have kept one of those necessary pieces on. So I awkwardly unhooked and with one swift motion flung it across the room. That was the start of a beautifully awkward relationship.

The next few sessions we talked a lot. I now know that you aren't really supposed to converse with your masseur, just sort of lay there and let him work magic. I wish I had known that earlier because I know all about his daughter and her schooling, "She very smart," and his nephew who recently had a birthday party; he also likes to rollerskate. After the first few conversations I found out about the no-talking rule, but I was hooked, he just assumed we would pick up our conversation where we left off! I even tried the silent treatment, but then he'd just ask "How schooool?" and "Good" wasn't an acceptable answer because Yakoff went on "How your mom?" and on "What you doing this summer?" and on "What else new?"
Needless to say, the insurance money ran out and so did my massages.