Proof of the Existence of God

It is very very difficult to massage someone while carrying on a non-stop conversation with them for an hour.

I repeat:

It is very very difficult to massage someone while carrying on a non-stop conversation with them for an hour.

Though I sort of already knew this, this fact was concretized on Thursday night with my second massage client. I should've known it was gonna be a ride and a half when she a) didn't even know what she was signed up for as her husband had purchased the services for her for sweetest day, and b) despite sitting in the lobby area for 15 minutes or so, she waited until I greeted her and started to take her back to the room to decide that she needed to use the rest room.

But even when all that was said and done, I had no clue she was going to talk NON-STOP for the whole hour. I kid you not. Non-stop.

Things discussed during said hour:

The Seinfeld massage episode where George thinks he might be gay because "it moves" while he's being massaged by a guy.
A childhood experience where she was ice skating and her friend had an allergic reaction to the cold and her face swelled up.
Almost every conceivable question a person could ask about massage therapy.
What muscle I was massaging at that specific moment in time.
The topic of chiropractors.
The topic of physical therapists.
The topic of my boyfriend and what kind of work he does.
How when she was little, she took a friend with her to the chiropractor, and they giggled so much that the chiropractor got pissed because he had a difficult time trying to adjust her.
The topic of what massage actually does to the body.
Questions concerning what kind of things will relax/stretch the muscles other than massage.
The topic of whether or not I've ever massaged someone with fibromyalgia before.
A discussion of the fact that going to a massage therapist is like going to get your haircut--it's not only a time to relax but a time to socialize.
Disbelief with regard to the fact that anyone could ever possibly think that there wasn't a God, given the fact that the body is so elaborate and crazy and fascinating and complicated.

I thought I'd finally have some sorta of respite from the endless tirade when I flipped her over and jammed her face into the face-rest (it's damned hard to talk while your cheeks are being smashed into your eyes sockets), but she apparently has superheroic powers and was able to carry on unimpeded.

She was perhaps one of the most unabashedly cute and bizarrely charming women I'd met in a long while, a fact that I would've appreciated a bit more had I not been worried the whole time that she was bothering everyone else in the surrounding rooms with the volume-level of her voice (apparently, however, she was not).

She adored the massage and gushed about it for like 10 minutes afterwards, though I'm not quite sure how she could've even noticed the damn experience given the distraction of all the incessant talking.

But the pinnacle of the experience with her (it almost was obligatory that this scene took place because there is nothing more accurate that could've captured her personality) was when, upon leaving, she reached into her wallet to tip me, handed me four singles, and then asked, while fishing around in the change pocket, whether I'd mind if she gave me some of her change for a tip so she could get rid of some of the excess she was carrying around.

It took all my willpower (and the willpower of those around me--most of whom I thought were going to wet themselves) to withhold full-out laughter.