Clean Didey Day At The Rub & Tug

Since the Day of the Chest Pains I've been getting one or two theraputic massages per week.  Nice, very serious young women with very strong hands.

The first day I come in, after the requisite paperwork, I'm led to a softly lighted room and invited to "disrobe to [my] comfort level" and she steps out. 

Ok. 

So I took off my shirt and sat on the table.  After a brief interval she calls out - "Ready in there?"  You bet!

Shoes had to go, too, but all else seemed fine.  Until two massages ago.  Margaret had some nerve she wanted at, down low, something she called a pubiculous meticulous ridiculum -  something else, but a lot like that.  "But with all those layers of clothing on, I really can't tell what's going on."

Ok.

So, two days ago, I make sure I've got clean undies on, and when I'm invited to disrobe to my blah blah blah, I disrobe to my best undies.  My second best, actually, but I didn't think the ones with the little red hearts and the "I Love You"s would be appropriate.  At least not yet.

So I'm lying there, and she's pushed and pulled my chest around until it feels like it's all in places other than where it should be, and she says, "Did you want me to show you that pressure point?"  Time stops.  There's no air. 

"Uhhhhhhhhh, yuh." I boldly venture.

She peels back the sheet, exposing the ElastoBand of my skivvies.  She sighs, exasperation finally on the forefront.  "Since you've still got all this on (all this?) I can't tell where everything is.  And I want everything to be out of the way before I show you the pressure point!"

I assured her everything was out of the way.  (Like a frightened turtle, out of the way.)

The point was located, pushed and prodded, and that was that.  Why do I feel as if I escaped something?