Friday night is designated down time around here. In my younger years, Friday was a big night out. Now it’s more of an exercise in licking the wounds of the week: homemade pizza, a nice bottle of red, rest, and maybe a rented movie.

Last night we tried something new. I retrieved an advertisement earlier this week from the mailbox, “Foot Fitness Reflexology. Foot Massage $20 Per Hour.” Having heard rave reviews of this place from friends, the full-page, slick add did not find a quick home in the trash–I saved it. The claims were too good to be true, “Improved night’s sleep, circulation, cardio-vascular system, balance weight control, plus much more.” All of this for less than the cost of a movie and popcorn? I made an appointment for two at 7:00, leaving plenty of time for a debriefing of the day over a glass of wine and pizza. We were off for a new adventure.

The down scale (opposite of upscale) strip mall parking lot was bustling. There was barely enough room for us to squeeze into the bright, spacious, sparsely furnished waiting room. There was a small crowd waiting by the front counter to pay their bill. We were immediately whisked through the hanging bead door into another world . . . soft, quiet music played in a dimly lit room lined with rows of overstuffed lounge chairs. We were directed to have a seat on a small stool facing the lay-back chair, remove our shoes and socks, and roll our pant legs up to our knees. We complied. In 2.5 seconds a small, Asian man arrived toting a large pan of warm, soapy water into which he directed me to place my feet. He enthusiastically began rubbing my shoulders and neck. As a girl who carries stress in my neck and shoulders, this was heaven. Soon, I was doubled over in half like a rag doll, oblivious to the room full of people, including BF who was in the station to my left.

I was in some sort of ultra relaxed trance when I realized my masseur was urging me to swap seats. Upper extremities done, time for footsies. I did not want to move. Part 2 proved to be a study in pleasure/pain. That guy found more hot spots on the bottoms of my feet than I knew existed. There I lay, covered by a thin blanket, amused by the small, red paper Chinese lanterns that dotted the drop ceiling, melting, becoming one with the chair while the man manipulated the stuff of my feet. Left foot finished, sadness ensued as he progressed through the final rituals on my right foot.

Stepping back through the beads into the bright light and chatter of the waiting room, we payed our twenty dollars plus tip, and stepped out into the fresh night air. Darkness had fallen on this Friday evening and we slowly walked toward the car. Relaxed, relieved of the stress of the week, BF and I agreed that it was perhaps the best twenty bucks we had ever spent. In fact, we may have a new Friday night routine.