i only wear white when it rains

My Utopia is a place where every salon & spa accepts “walk-ins,” dry cleaners and grocery stores are all drive-thru and open 24 hours a day, and there isn’t the entire St. Petersburg Police force in front of me in line at Chipotle.

Therefore, I recently had a momentary lapse of reason during which I thought signing up for a Massage Envy membership was an effective way to remedy my broken body while still maintaining my noncommittal nature.

For those of you unfamiliar or diligent in your quest to remain scabie-free, Massage Envy franchises are typically located in the bowels of lower rent shopping plazas and cater to people who want a massage once a month by someone who will make you feel as if Ross is standing over you with salad tongs.

Another Massage Envy patron waiting to be tickled with turkey seasoning

For only $49 a month, you’re entitled to one, 60-minute massage. Or in my case, six months of amassed membership fees will culminate in a single malodorous morning. And quite possibly head lice.

Nevermind that when my therapist asked me about the pressure, it was so light I wasn’t even aware that she had begun the massage.

Or that my requests of “concentrate on a deep tissue massage of my upper body” were confused with “pretend we’re at a fifth grade slumber party and I’m guessing the letter you just gently drew on my back.”

I may even have been able to overlook the lack of towels, bathrobes or showers. Or that when you pay an extra $10 for aromatherapy, you leave smelling less “lavender garden” and more “brined turkey roast.”

But here’s what had me speeding down 4th Street toward the closest bar of soap: the room reeked of athlete’s foot and cheddar cheese popcorn. The smell was so ripe, I found myself silently cursing the therapist for being so short because while on my stomach, it brought the table (and my nose) that much closer to the ground.

Despite my rather unsatisfying no-touch massage which left me smelling like the garbage can of Boston Market, I gave my therapist a rather generous tip. From the looks of it, she’s in desperate need of yet another body piercing, and I’d hate for her to have to donate a liver to afford it. No sense in spreading that hepatitis. It’s my fauxlanthropic gesture of the day.

In the meantime, I’d like to think I’ll book my next massage at a place where they actually change the table linens…ever.

But to be honest, I’ll probably be sucked in again by the rare convenience of calling a place at 9:14 am and getting in the sweaty foot room by 10 am.

Plus unlike many spas that act as if booking a massage is an act of Congress, the receptionists at Massage Envy always seem to be quite accommodating.

“Sure you can come in for a 90-minute massage! We just finished squashing Pirate’s Booty into the carpet!”

Outstanding.