Take the following with a grain of salt because I think most jobs are weird, but I couldn’t think of anything worse than being a massage therapist. Every opening of the door marks the entrance of the next creepy old man body you have to pretend not to be disgusted by. In this case the Pavlovian response isn’t salivation at the thought of food but instead the onset of a whole body chill at every beep of the door sensor.
This isn’t Bad Boys where the masseuse turns up to work on hunky nice-guy Mike Lowry, this is dimly lit side-street retail dealing with back-street creeps. Yes, I know they’re not all creeps but there’s something to the fact 98% of the clientele are men. I don’t think anyone can argue men are that much more stressed than women. So let’s just assume most massage customers sit just on the creepy side of the creepiness spectrum, he said generously.
the reality
It’s hard to know what the worst part of the experience is for the masseuse, whether it’s the kneading of floppy rice paper skin, the gross looks from customers, the unspoken air of the possibility of something more, the customers’ uncomfortable banter (it may actually be worse if they were too comfortable though), or the chorus of moans and groans sneaking through the paper thin walls. It’s all pretty ugly, let’s be honest.
Many people misinterpret why massage rooms are so dark; it’s not for you guys to relax, it’s for them. The least you one can do for the poor masseuse is spare her from seeing your old skid-marked undies sitting atop a bed of lumpy mashed potato you call your body.
I’m grateful there are people who can compartmentalise this horror in order to pursue some kind of greater goal because god knows I wouldn’t be able to. It makes me realise people are doing it harder than me and I should stop complaining about my slightly bitter soy flat white at the cafe, but I still won’t lol.