Back Scratching

I’d be hard pressed to say which I prefer: a 15-minute massage or a 10-minute back-scratching.

Herein lies the problem:

One: I love it when Heather scratches my back.

Two: Heather does not like to scratch my back.

In years past she has tried placating me with other pathetic back-scratching alternatives. One Christmas she bought me a long plastic arm that had a round, spiked, rotating mechanical wheel on it. It felt soooo realistic cuz, ya know, Heather always takes a meat tenderizer, and, ya know, oscillates it when she scratches my back. That year I derived more pleasure out of the candy coal she put in my stocking. Rough and jagged, it produced the desired effect when I rubbed it back and forth, back and forth, ferociously, as if I were a pedicurist rubbing a pumice stone on Tarzan’s feet in an attempt to tame his raw, wild flesh. Which brings me to my next point concerning back scratching: it’s called “scratching” for a reason. I remind Heather: “Scratch it till it bleeds, honey….Ooooh, yeah. That’s right. Make it bleed.”

One night I kept on and on, on and on, scratching my back. I felt something back there that resembled, yes, a gulley. I told Heather: “Turn on the light, hon , and take a look at my back. I think there’s a scratch there.” She turned on the light and beheld what resembled a relief map of the Andes mountain range.

This topic is clearly Troy’s. In December, we went to the Arab baths (where you get a 15 minute massage) and it was Troy’s first visit. His immediate response was “Don’t you think you need to take some massage classes?” He’s still bitter because apparently when we were dating I gave him backrubs 24/7 and now I never do.

The thing is, Troy will wait until I am 30 seconds away from falling dead asleep and then say, in a pathetic wee voice “Will you scratch my back?” I have to admit there are times when I am cruel and flat out refuse.

Honestly, at this point I have no idea how I am going to come up with 250 words on this topic.

One year for Christmas I bought Troy a battery powered back scratcher that looked like a woman’s hand (it even had red painted fingernails on it) and had a little rotating spiky thing-a-ma-jigger. He refused point-blank to use it. He is a complete and utter snob when it comes to back scratching.

When we had children, Troy thought his problems were solved because he could press them into slavery get them to scratch his back. It worked for a short amount of time, but now they are on to him. As soon as he asks now, the eye-rolling and “Oh DAAAAAAAAAAAAD” begins.

Clearly, they are smart children.