I’ll always be in wonder of how muscles could be twisted in a great number of ways.
One time, my best friend Jake and I were mall-hopping. To get to the next stop, we had to take a jeep. He got in first and I followed. Luckily, there was one seat left. Although it looked like only half of my butt would be able to sit.
Still, I squeezed myself in to what little space there was.
By wedging myself between the passengers, I began to feel pain. Not in my rear, mind you. But in my arm. Until now, I do not understand how that happened. Maybe because, as I tried to get myself seated, the jeep moved forward too fast and shocked my muscles. Well, that’s my theory. I could still be corrected.
Anyway, that 15-minute ride felt like a whole day, all thanks to the pain.
Once we got off the jeep, I made my way to the men’s room at the mall. I wanted to check my arm. While we dashed, I told Jake what happened. He said something about the way I sat.
There we were, in front of the mirror. Jake was checking out his hair. I was nursing my arm.
Maybe I looked pitiful. Maybe I looked strange. Maybe I looked like I needed a happy pill. Whatever it was, the janitor’s interest got piqued and asked me what was wrong. So I began telling him about the jeep ride.
Even before I could finish my story, he had my arm in his hands. And he was massaging it!
He went at it for about less than five minutes and then let go. I felt better. Creeped out a bit but better. I thanked him but never bothered to know his name—because I was creeped out, in case you missed that part.
For his part, Jake just pointed out the obvious: I got massaged in the men’s room. And that was the joke of the day.