I’ve been curious to experience a professional body message for a long time, but I just never actually got around to setting up an appointment. I’ve been getting scalp massages from my hair stylist — that’s a weird term for a good ol’ boy to use, but women don’t like to be called “barbers” — for a couple years, and they’re wonderful. Head massages are so gloriously relaxing and stress relieving. I could just imagine what a full-body massage would feel like.

I have to admit that part of my failure to call a place and make an appointment has been based on simply not knowing exactly what to expect. I mean, a scalp massage while sitting in a barber’s chair isn’t really mysterious; you’re sitting there, the stylist is running her fingers through your hair while cutting and washing already. But a body massage: Do I have to get naked? Who’ll be rubbing my body? Where will they run their hands? Would it be a man or a woman? Is it homophobic to not want a male masseuse? Is it suggestive to want a female one?

But, at last, as a sort-of Christmas gift to myself, I decided to finally take the leap onto a massage table. There’s a reputable chain location near our home, and fortunately for my nerves and hesitation, it turns out that they have a good web site that pretty much spells out exactly what a massage session entails. I read the introduction and emailed an appointment request.

Filling out the online form, I chose to try the Swedish massage, as that seems to be the standard, (or maybe just the stereotypical), routine. A female masseuse was the default option, and I accepted it.

The appointment would be for an hour: 5 minutes before and after, and 50 minutes of actual massage time. Fifty minutes of massage, that sounded pretty darn sweet.

I arrived at the shop, (. . . store . . . what is kind of establishment called?), and checked in. The receptionist sat me back in the “relaxation room” — it’s got soft, comfy couches and chairs, and is quiet other than the soft murmur of a small water fountain.

I had to fill out a form, and the questions were “interesting.”  Most of the questions were the standard name, address, any medical conditions your massage therapist needs to know about, etc. But then there were the:

Are you comfortable with having your head massaged?

Are you comfortable with having your pectoral region massaged?

Are you comfortable with having your gluteal region massaged?

And so on, including arms and legs.

My head massaged, sure, no problem. Arms and legs, probably okay. My chest, hmm, maybe okay. I’m a married man, so having a woman who’s not my wife rub my chest . . . I had to think the concept over for a few seconds. I was there to get a massage, which in my mind means, “back rub,” so I was already accepting the idea of a stranger woman rubbing me down. And really, how big a difference is letting someone rub my chest than rub my back? I got over the mental speedbump and checked yes to the chest rub.

But “gluteal region”? My butt? Yeah, that’s a no, thank you.

The very first section of the form explained that there would be no touching of the genitals, so that question wasn’t an issue. Yeah, even I, as clueless as I am with most pop culture slang, have heard of the “happy ending.” I specifically chose a reputable chain business to avoid that whole quagmire. I’m “happy” at home just fine, thank you very much.

I turned the form in with the receptionist and then just waited a few minutes for my massage therapist to come get me. I gave some thought to what kind of masseuse I wanted. I knew beforehand that I wanted a female, not a male, no matter how phobic that makes me sound. But also I’d come to decide that I would like a middle-aged woman, slightly less than physically well fit. I definitely did not want a young fitness trainer-type.

My reasoning was: I wanted someone who probably wouldn’t look on me as a disgusting old man. A middle-aged woman would probably consider me “neutral” in age (by comparison), and one not in great personal physical shape might appreciate, (in a professional knowledge way), that I have been working out. A young fitness trainer-type girl might consider me a pathetic geezer who’s trying to fight off mother nature’s wrath.

Don’t judge me.

When my masseuse came and introduced herself, she was a young twenty-something, but not a fitness trainer-type. She took me back to the room and explained exactly what and how she was going to do. When I had no questions, she stepped out of the room and let me disrobe. I kept my black briefs on, but as I had a blanket covering all of me except the part of my body she was working on, I never really had any modesty issues.

Fifty minutes of massage is very nice. It’s very relaxing, and I did enjoy the treatment. But it wasn’t exactly what I expected. I expected more massage of my back and shoulders, in a broad way. She did work my back and shoulders, but it was more focused in small areas, a few square inches at a time. It was like a doctor’s examination where the doc is trying to feel for inflammation of internal organs. I think she counted the ribs in my back; there was no chest massaging.

All in all, the experience was pleasant, but a little disappointing. The focusing on small areas rather than broad wasn’t what I expected and wanted, but it wasn’t bad. Still, fifty minutes of even focused massage is nice. I left relaxed, no doubt.

Will I make another appointment? I don’t know.

Bullgrit

I’m sure everyone has heard or read something about the mass shooting in Tucson, Arizona over the weekend. Some reports are calling it an assassination attempt, but the attack wasn’t on just one person, it was on a large group of people — normal, every-day citizens as well as government officials.

Apparently the gunman was stopped when some of those normal, every-day citizens bravely responded by counter-attacking when the gunman had to reload his pistol. They attacked with their bare hands and bodies.

I don’t throw around the word “hero” as easily as some people do, (especially like those in the media do), but a person who chooses to physically jump on a gunman instead of running away qualifies as a hero in my definition. (This is *not* to say that someone who runs from a gunman is in any way a coward — running away from a nutcase with a weapon is a wise and perfectly sensible thing to do.)

Now imagine what could have happened if even one of those citizens was armed. Instead of jumping the crazy shooter after he shot off all the (30!) bullets in his first magazine, maybe someone could have dropped him before he fired more than a handful of bullets.

If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns.

An armed society is a polite society.

Some people are scared of the idea of weapons in the hands of law-abiding citizens. I’m not so much. I’m much more fearful of weapons in the hands of criminals and lunatics.

My brother has a concealed-carry permit, and he regularly carries a concealed weapon. He’s had the proper, official training, (not to mention he grew up, like me, with many guns in our home), and I know his temperament — he’s not a hothead likely to pull a weapon for any reason other than dire danger. A room with my brother, armed, in it is safer than a room without him. (Excepting a police station full of cops, or a military base full of soldiers/marines/etc.)

Brogrit moving boxes at our mom’s house over the Christmas holiday:

If I lived in a less complicated environment, (that is: without young children), I might also carry a concealed weapon. But my life situation makes carrying a weapon more of an everyday complication weighed against the likelihood of ever needing a weapon right at hand. I do own quite a few firearms, but they aren’t ready for immediate action. Given an hour’s warning, I’d be very ready for a Russian Invasion or the Zombie Apocalypse. (I even have a fully functional sword and shield.)

But, so I’m not completely defenseless against random outlaws and lunatics, I have black-belt training in tae kwon do, (as well as lower-level training in karate and jujutsu), to at least give me an edge in any situation short of facing a gun. I’m not self-delusional enough to think I’m Chuck Norris — I know I’d probably be beat up by a big, strong, determined, enraged, and/or crazy attacker, but I feel I could at least fight long enough that my wife and children, (and anyone else around), could get away before I was destroyed.

A lunatic with a gun is a terrible thing. But a lawful citizen with a gun can be a wonderful thing. I hope I’m never in a crowd with the first, but I’m pretty comfortable in a crowd with the second. In fact, if I am ever in a crowd with the former, I hope the latter is also present.

Bullgrit

Going through my dad’s house last month, we found a lot of interesting old family memorabilia. Among the random papers, we found this old Christmas wish list:

Researching some of the toys in this list, I figure this was probably for the Christmas of 1975. I would have been 8 years old, and brogrit would have been 3, going on 4 years old.

The cursive writing, both pencil and pen, looks like my dad’s, and the large text printed in pencil was probably my own. The black boxes are just to conceal our names — mine, brogrit’s, our dad’s, and our mom’s.

• Six Million Dollar Man game
• Evel Knievel Formula 1 Dragster
• G.I. Joe
• Hotwheels cars

Oh, I remember all of those. Good times.

And little brogrit wanted western play wear and a fun tunnel. Sweet little guy. [pats his head and tousles his hair]

I also see that at 8 years old, I was getting a bb gun. Booya! (I never shot my eye out.) And my little brother was getting some trucks. I’m sure I never teased him or talked down to him when I got my big boy toys.

“You go push your plastic fire truck, little boy,” I would never have said, “I’m going to go shoot stuff with my real bb gun.”

There’s got to be a picture of brogrit in his cute western play wear.

Bullgrit

My dad kept his 1985 Chevy Monte Carlo in excellent condition. He bought and sold other cars since getting the Monte Carlo in the mid 80s, but they were just cars. The 85 MC was his special ride. When not using it as his main vehicle, he made sure to drive it at least once a week to keep it tuned up; in the past several years he kept it wrapped in two, (not just one), car covers, in his carport when not driving it. This year, its 25th, it officially became a “classic car.”

My dad kept it not only because he loved it, but he hoped to have something “classic” to pass on to his sons. He even wondered if maybe one of his grandsons would like it as their first car. At first he was disappointed when I explained that the logistics of keeping the car, after his passing, would just be too much for me. It would be at least seven more years before Calfgrit9 would even get his license, (10 more for Calfgrit6), and I had nowhere safe to keep it, and really just not the head for maintaining it, (and no decades-long relationship with a good mechanic, like he had). He eventually came to accept the fact that it just wasn’t a functional vehicle for me, my brother, or my sons. But that didn’t diminish his love of it or his wish to pass on something classic to his boys.

It is a damn nice car. And it has memories. My dad drove it regularly as his main conveyance for several years before deciding to turn it into an heirloom. I even used it a few times for teenage dates, though it was just a modern car then; it wasn’t anything classic at that time.

In recent years, I rarely got to drive it. Almost exactly a year ago, I got to drive it for about 20 minutes from in town to his home in the country. Cruising along, Dad said, “Back off the speed a little, son, we’re in no hurry.”

“Dad,” I said, “I’m doing forty-five.”

“Well, it feels like you’re doing more.”

It was his baby, and he’d put a lot of effort and emotion into maintaining it. Someone else at the wheel and on the gas pedal made him nervous. For the last many months, it had remained wrapped up and undriven while my dad went through his last battle with the cancer.

After his funeral, when family and friends were preparing to leave the grave site and head over to the old farm-country church for dinner, I had the idea that my brother and I arrive at the church in the Monte Carlo. Brogrit agreed that this was a fantastic idea, one that would make Dad smile.

As it turned out, it would have been a fantastic idea had it come to mind 24 hours earlier. When we went by Dad’s old house, (another thing he left for us to inherit), we found the battery dead. (Like I said, it had been sitting for many months by this time.)

We didn’t have a set of jumper cables with us. Brogrit even went to a neighbor’s house and rang the bell in hopes of borrowing some cables, but no one answered the door. All we had was Dad’s plug-in battery charger, and that takes hours to charge a car battery. While we tried to figure out how to bring the old car to life, we talked about also needing a theme song for our arrival at the church.

We pictured the two of us cruising up to the church, with the car windows down, our theme music playing, (maybe some AC/DC in our style, or maybe some Waylon Jennings in Dad’s style). We’d pull into the parking lot, stop, and get out of the car looking all cool in our black suits. . . but it was not to happen that day. It’s the story of my life: I have the coolest ideas a day late.

Well, we left the battery charger plugged in and hooked up, and we went on to the church dinner.

The next day, the car was good to go. We wanted and needed to take the car out to have it inspected and to renew the license tags. Brogrit called dibs on the first drive, and we headed out. I found some old cassette tapes in the glove compartment, and chose the one with our dad’s name on it: a mix tape of country classics.

Among other songs, we listened to George Jones’ He Stopped Loving Her Today

As many times as I’ve heard that song through the decades, it was on this day, cruising in my newly-passed father’s car, that I first learned/realized the actual story in the song. It now puts a little lump in my throat when I hear it.

As we cruised through town on our errands, Brogrit commented that driving the car made him a little nervous. I laughed and said I understood. After a while, he let me drive. As soon as I sat down behind the wheel and cranked up the engine, my nerves twisted in me. This was our dad’s baby, the car he had kept and taken care of for 25 years. As much as I really wanted to take it for a spin around town a few minutes earlier, at that moment, with the my hands on the steering wheel and my foot on the gas pedal, anxiety was creeping up my spine. Even before putting it into gear, I started worrying about screwing up and damaging that car somehow. What if I clip the curb? What if someone hits me?

“I said I understood about being nervous to drive this,” I said. “But I really didn’t until now.” Brogrit laughed.

We left the car with Dad’s long-time mechanic for an inspection, and Brogrit had to start heading back to his home. When I picked the car back up, to take it back to Dad’s house, I decided to stop by the DMV office, (located in the local mall), to renew the tags because it was on the way.

I parked the car way out in the middle of the parking lot, because that was what Dad always did — to protect it from errant shopping carts and careless car doors. After getting the new year sticker for the license plate, I walked back out to the parking lot. Right beside Dad’s car was a well-maintained old Chevy Nova.

Turns out the Nova driver was an old-car aficionado, and wanted to look over Dad’s Monte Carlo. I opened the door for him to look in, and he exclaimed, “Man, it’s like brand new!”

“My dad took good care of it,” I said, beaming with pride.

We talked for a few minutes, and he told me about his Nova and another car that he had just purchased, (he was at the mall for the DMV, too). I know next to nothing about cars, old or new, so I didn’t know whether to be impressed or not. He asked what I was going to do with this Monte Carlo, and then gave me his name and phone number.

He said good bye and went toward the mall, and I got in the Monte Carlo to take it back to its home. When I got back to Dad’s old house, I stayed in the car to finish listening to the end of the mix tape and heard Ronnie Milsap’s Back on My Mind Again

When the tape finished, I pushed the button to pop it out. Then I backed the car into the carport and put the double cover on it. I patted it gently and said, “Thanks, Dad,” before leaving.

I hate that we’re going to sell it, but really, neither of us can keep it and take care of it like it needs. It needs an owner who has the knowledge and wherewithal to keep it up as well as Dad did. It should be honored better than either of us could attentively manage. I’m starting to think of the situation as more putting it up for adoption than putting it up for sale.

Besides, if Heaven is all it’s said to be, Dad has a divine duplicate of this vehicle with him cruising through the clouds. Stay cool, Dad.

Bullgrit