Vulcan Death Grip

Okay. So I figured I'd take the time to write out the full story behind the "Death Grip" we learned in class yesterday as it seems worthy of its own sitcom episode.

But before I do so, I must introduce you to a fellow student in my class. She sits next to me nearly every time in Massage I, and she talks my ear off like I've never heard anyone talk. I know how all about her failed marriage. I know that she has a picture of her and that Simon guy from American Idol on her cell phone. I know that she visited an episode of Fear Factor when she was in whatever city it is they film it in. I know that she would never marry a doctor because she thinks they are jerks. I know that nude beaches freak her out. If there were an Oscar for talking, she'd be sweeping that category every year in a row. I mean, I think I could simultaneously take a shit, masturbate, eviscerate a small animal, jam a crucifix up my pooter and sing "Mary Had a Little Lamb" in front of her and she would pause no more than a second or two in her story before continuing on like a runaway train packed into an avalanche packed into a meteor heading straight towards the earth. *And* she is absolutely clueless, god bless her. She is a sweet woman, but ABSOLUTELY CLUELESS. Three times she asked me in class what page we were on, after I'd told her repeatedly that I did not have the same book as her. Three times. And after our instructor very slowly and carefully illustrated five different vibration techniques, she looked over to me and whispered, "So there's *two* different vibration techniques and that's it, right?"

Fast-forward to massage practical in which I get paired up with the very same woman. I am sitting, knees to chest, in a bikini, on a massage table as the other half of the class receives instruction on how to do the third set of steps in our massage routine. I am marveling at how much more clearly I can breath when my little tiny nosering is not in, and I'm vaguely listening to their discussion about massage techniques. And then suddenly my ears perk up when I hear our instructor warning the students near him to be careful on the neck area because (as stated earlier) if done incorrectly, it could conceivably result in death.* I swear to you I about wet myself, because bolting across the room directly towards me right then and there was the one woman who is probably obliviously skilled enough to massage me to my death.

I swear to you, as I lay there, I was actually picturing the end of it all. I was having perhaps the most hypochondriacal moment I've ever had in my life. I started feeling shortness of breath as she was giggling at me and working on that area. I felt like something was constricting my windpipe. I felt lightheaded. My neck felt completely tense and tight. I kept thinking over and over, "Oh my god, she is going to kill me... Oh my god, she is going to kill me... Oh my god, she is going to kill me..." and "My God, the last thing I'm gonna set eyes on is this stupid vcr/tv combination and the last thing I'm going to hear is Queen Talkine muttering "Digital kneading... Friction... Digital kneading... Friction" to herself."

I have not been quite so freaked out in a long time.

Needless to say, I made it out alive, but for the grace of god toot toot and all that. But on my way home, I had the worst tension headache and found myself neurotically thinking, "Maybe it's some weird delayed reaction and she did in fact stimulate my carotid sinus the wrong way, and I'm now going to drift off into unconsciousness and slam into the median only to be enveloped by a huge ball of flame."

I suspect that henceforth and forever, I'm going to have a freakishly irrational fear of people touching my neck.

God help me.

*Sobbing quietly*

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* Apparently, the mechanical irritation of the carotid sinus *can* result in death.