Sitting In The Electric Chair

My motto around here is:  When the going gets tough, it’s time for a pedicure.  A good pedicure is right up there with chocolate when it comes to indulgences.

English is not the first language of the people who work at my salon of choice, so conversations between customer and manicurist are minimal.  Plenty of smiles and ahhh-inspiring leg and foot massages make conversation unnecessary and the experience blissful.

Generally, it’s something like this:

Want manicure or pedicure?

Pedicure.

Pick color.

As the queen of indecision, generally I head for the pedicure chair with a polish bottle clutched in each hand.  Something like Monkey Butt Red and Hotter Than A Pepper Sprout Crimson.  I’m not into the blacks and blues.

Today, as usual, the nice young man puts a dab of each polish on a nail and then points to one. “You like this one best,” he tells me, matter-of-factly.

I agree.  I always agree.

What makes today different is that new pedicure chairs have been installed since my last visit.  Excellent!   The old ones were fine except for my last visit, when I sat in one where the massage mechanism had been left on Knock cycle, which I didn’t know existed, so I didn’t notice until my teeth began rattling from all the whacks on my back.

This new chair has an iPad-sized screen of fancy settings mounted on a stand by the right arm rest.  When I strain to read it, the young man takes control.  “POWER,” he informs me, reaching over to push the button.

All goes well, if a tad too vigorously, for the first few seconds.  The book I’d planned to read is bouncing around in my hands as if I’m riding a horse.   Part massage, part mechanical bull.

It is the next cycle which raises my alarm bells.  Hells bells, it raises everything!  The heretofore flat chair cushion begins creepily rising a few inches on the sides, squeezing inwardly on my hips and thighs to lock me in place.

Then, if you can believe this, something begins rising from the center of the chair and takes me with it, raising my bottom like a cake about to be frosted. The “Thing” is pressing practically into my. . . .yowsah!   I try to find what I’m experiencing on the Options Chart.  I’m looking for phrases like Crotch caress… Vaginal Vaa-voom.  This had to have been  engineered by a wannabe gynecologist.!

It is not unlike the sensation of sitting down in a chair and realizing that you’ve sat on the cat. . . then discovering that said cat is bionic as it stands up, lifting you in the process.

I look at the guy in wild-eyed terror.  “Have you ever SAT in this chair?” I gasp, pointing at the horny machine.

“No.  New.  Nice, yes?”

I look around to see if anyone else is experiencing this.  No, they’re either engrossed in a magazine or diddling with their phones.  Their chairs are not moving.

I am the only one being goosed.

Finally, the sides release my captive hips and flatten to normal cushion size.  “Thing” sinks  back into the seat bottom.  There is a small sigh as all this happens.  From the chair, not me. It sounds pleased with itself.  The bouncing has stopped and I can read the fine print now.  Something about “seat airbag.”  Hah!  Nary a word about the mechanical fist that, believe me, was not just air.

In fact, I check my receipt to see if there is a charge for a pap smear.

One more minute and I’d have been ready to swear out an assault warrant.

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15 thoughts on “Sitting In The Electric Chair

  1. Arkansas Patti

    Tears from laughing are one thing, a down right aching tummy from pure belly laughs is another. Thank you so much for such a delightful read this morning. I have bookmarked this post for slow days.

  2. Those ladies diddling with their phones had no idea what they were missing. I love the mental image I have of you being felt up by a mechanical chair and glancing around to see whether it was only you! So funny Mary!
    By the way- the chair I sat in shook so much it felt like I was driving down a road filled with potholes. I almost needed to put my arms over my chest to keep things steady!

    1. You’re right. I’m sure I was blushing. The guy who was giving me the pedicure always scrubs off the rough places on the bottom of my feet with a smoothing pad that is really ticklish. What they missed was a red-faced me being flung around by a mechanical hand up my butt while the pedicurist held one of my legs up in the air, tickling my foot. Had they seen, they might have felt they were being shortchanged.

  3. Janice Wagar

    That may be a special chair that came from the home country of your pedicurist. I wonder if that will bring in the customers?

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