"Can a massage cause and irreperable harm?" craaaaack. "Can a massage KILL you?" craaaaack. "God I don't want to die here."
So there I was, getting the most painful massage in my life from a hulk of a Thai woman, trying to mind-over-matter myself out it, when, in a more gracious moment that lulled me into a false sense of security, she asked me about my tattoo.
"What is your tattoo?" craaaaack. ("Oooowwweeeee. God, if I survive this I'll do anything. I'll start going to church again. I'll stop rapping ODB in front of Jesuit novices. I'll stop cussing at those goddam cats that are infesting my building. Just let me liiiive.")
"It's from the Bible, about helping the poor," I said, hoping that would soften her heart enough to take it easy on me.
"Oh. Is it the time like on a watch, Mt 19:21?"
"No it is a chapter, a passage, like a page number."
"Is it lucky?" craaaaack. ("Are elbows supposed to crack like that? I hope so.")
"No, not for luck. it's more like lesson."
Then we stopped talking so she could get back to testing my threshold for pain. I was lying on my side while she carved her knuckles into my neck, wondering when the relaxing part was supposed to begin, trying not to be the first (sober) person to puke in her massage parlor, when I thought back to my tattoo. What was the "lesson" etched on my wrist? Not to get a tattoo on whim after a few beers? No, that's not it.
To be honest, I'm not actually sure what I am supposed to learn or reflect on whenever I notice it. The passage is about a rich man who asks Jesus how to get into heaven and Jesus tells him to give his riches to the poor and follow Him.
Well, I'm not rich. And I do follow Jesus (when I'm not in Pattaya). So what do I tell this interrogationist when she is practicing her enhanced techniques to get information out of me?
I guess I'd say that it is just a gentle reminder not to become too attached to things. If I truly want to follow the example of Jesus I need to live without and give what I can to others.
So, fewer spending sprees and massages. That's fine. It'll take awhile to recover from this one.
"What is your tattoo?" craaaaack. ("Oooowwweeeee. God, if I survive this I'll do anything. I'll start going to church again. I'll stop rapping ODB in front of Jesuit novices. I'll stop cussing at those goddam cats that are infesting my building. Just let me liiiive.")
"It's from the Bible, about helping the poor," I said, hoping that would soften her heart enough to take it easy on me.
"Oh. Is it the time like on a watch, Mt 19:21?"
"No it is a chapter, a passage, like a page number."
"Is it lucky?" craaaaack. ("Are elbows supposed to crack like that? I hope so.")
"No, not for luck. it's more like lesson."
Then we stopped talking so she could get back to testing my threshold for pain. I was lying on my side while she carved her knuckles into my neck, wondering when the relaxing part was supposed to begin, trying not to be the first (sober) person to puke in her massage parlor, when I thought back to my tattoo. What was the "lesson" etched on my wrist? Not to get a tattoo on whim after a few beers? No, that's not it.
To be honest, I'm not actually sure what I am supposed to learn or reflect on whenever I notice it. The passage is about a rich man who asks Jesus how to get into heaven and Jesus tells him to give his riches to the poor and follow Him.
Well, I'm not rich. And I do follow Jesus (when I'm not in Pattaya). So what do I tell this interrogationist when she is practicing her enhanced techniques to get information out of me?
I guess I'd say that it is just a gentle reminder not to become too attached to things. If I truly want to follow the example of Jesus I need to live without and give what I can to others.
So, fewer spending sprees and massages. That's fine. It'll take awhile to recover from this one.
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crrraack
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