Good Day to You, Sir

Last night was our double-midterm for Massage I. Three hours of hell-filled hellishness: a couple of hours for the actual massage practical exam followed by a sexy 100-question written midterm. Like finding out you won the lottery in the middle of experiencing the most powerful and amazing orgasm you've had in your life.

Yeah.

That's it.

The practical was actually weirdly intimidating. There were two rows of massage tables set up, separated by a large wall of dividers that were put up specifically for the test. Your partner laid down on the table. You draped them correctly. You then went and sat on the chair at the foot of the table. You had to stare straight ahead at the dividers the whole time until it was your turn. If you happened to look around, it was considered the equivalent of craning your neck to get answers off of your neighbor's written test. Tenseness of tensenesses.

They came around first to inspect us--they checked to make sure that we were dressed professionally and that our scrubs were clean. And then they checked to make sure that our nails were clean and cut down so no white was showing. If they had cupped my testicles in their hand and jiggled them around as a quality-check, I would not have been surprised. Thankfully I passed (and thankfully they didn't notice that the sheets I use for draping were covered in cat hair and shared the mildly pungent sweat-sock smell of my car (where they've been sitting between classes every week)). I am sanitary. Yes yes.

Once this was done, the actual test commenced. One instructor stood at the end of the dividers and loudly stated a massage technique. Then you had to wait your turn as one of the instructors went around their half of the room. When it was your turn, you stood up, walked over to your "client," performed the technique (or completely fucked it up, depending), and then returned to your seat.

We had to do about 10 techniques or so, and I was doing fine until we ran into two techniques that we'd NEVER FRICKING GONE OVER IN CLASS BEFORE. Like the doltiest of dolts, I tried guessing at them in completely awkward and weird ways that were absolutely incorrect. Thankfully our instructors were nice ladies, and out of 6 possible points, we only got docked 2 points for not knowing a technique (as long as we were in the right area and succeeded in all other aspects of the technique--they like to throw us curveballs when it comes to the areas we massage; in the land of anatomy, the term "arm" doesn't mean the portion from your wrist to your shoulder, it means the portion from your elbow to your shoulder--from your wrist to your elbow is the "forearm" (as made clear in the following diagram, which illustrates the frequent circumstances under which you might find yourself massaging amputees with legs for arms),

and "leg" refers to the area from your knee to your ankle, not that whole big dangly chunk of sausage that juts out o' your groin--people inevitably fuck this up). Unfortunately, having two techniques in a row that I had no clue about made me incredibly nervous and I literally spent the second half of the test with ears that felt like they were on fire and blood pounding through my temples.

It was not fun.

Thankfully I ended up getting a 96%, despite fucking up two techniques. Yip yip.

After plugging my way through 100 beastly questions the likes of "Which massage technique is most useful for dealing with edema and improving absorption?" or "Which of the following is NOT a contraindication for vibration?" I was done. I immediately bought myself the 440-calorie vegan double-chocolate cookie that I'd been eyeing for 8 weeks in the bookstore, took it home, and ate it while drinking an ice cold beer.

Today I have an Ethics test. One of the many topics it encompasses is "how to address an erection."

I typically address them as "Sir," but maybe that's just me.