Massage is one of my addictions. I don't mean "massage" as code for body shampoos and happy endings but rather as it was originally connoted before the dawn of the parlours that can be found near almost any airport or truck stop. Think Swedish. Think Shiatsu. Think Deep Tissue. Real massage.
Every time I move, I have to hunt around for a massage therapist, like Goldilocks searching for her perfect bowl of porridge. In Austin, it was Joy Sablatura, whose first name was apt. In Knoxville, Annie O'Dowd Gray, who was a great boon not only when I was great with child but for a few years before and after. (An aside: the interior decorating scheme of Well by Nature, where Annie now has her table, is truly amazing to behold. You know, that's hard to type with my tongue so firmly in my cheek...).
In Oneonta thus far, I'm therapist-less. Today I had massage #3 from therapist #3. It was OK--technically competent but just lacking in the warmth department, which plagued therapist #1 as well. Therapist #2 was personable, but not all that good at the hands-on stuff. I may be a victim of my own fussiness here. I enjoy massage so much that I went to massage school--some in the Friday Five ring may remember my homework--but stopped just short of my practical clinic thingy because I had a revelation and realized that rubbing naked strangers just wasn't my thing.
My point is that my searching/schooling has made me an educated consumer, so much so that I frequently ponder renting myself out to would-be masseusists. But it also means that I'm a bitch to satisfy. And while each of my Oneonta appointments to date has been terminally OK, this town is small enough that I'm running out of options. Number three may be the best I can do, which is still pretty good, but I know perfection must be out there. And so I press on, stripping my clothes off and jumping on to the tables of strangers.
Addendum: I know this is a totally minor issue reserved for those with the luxury of disposable income. I gripe merely because I can, which is also a luxury reserved for those with disposable income, come to think of it.
Addendum the Second: Just after typing the above, I was cleaning out my bookmarks folder and found this Slate story about having too many choices and learning to settle for good enough. I am not certain it applies in this specific case, but signify something about our culture of copious choices.