What do you get the guy who likes nothing at all for his birthday? Jenny, in all of her infinite superstar wisdom, decided to get me a professional massage.

I’m getting older, which means most of my birthday gifts have to do with preventing death. Everything I got for my big day involved spinal support. You would think I’m someone’s grandmother with the type of things that bring me joy on my big day.

At first, Jenny was going to send me to the massage solo. How dare she! How dare she not experience it with me!

Only minutes after I received my gift, she began to convince herself to go with the couple’s massage. I liked this idea a lot better. In addition to being my wife, she’s the one who helps me decide whether or not the parking spot we’ve chosen is legal. On this day, we picked a good one.

I’ve never received a professional massage before. I’m not a touchy person as it is. To make myself so vulnerable to another human being goes against everything I stand for. You’d have a better chance of seeing me vote for Donald Trump in a Yankees hat while eating vegetables and caring about the kind of car I drive.

Unlike that hypothetical situation, this outrageous change turned into a really good one. If I had the money, I would get a massage every week. It’s literally the best thing in the world. Someone has to rub me and pretend to not be bored. It’s heaven.

The environment was pretty much as you’d imagine. It was quiet, dark, and the ideal setting to relax. We filled out some forms ahead of time to provide the masseuses with information on our problem areas. Mine was everything from my lower left back down to my toes. Jenny’s pain is in her upper back and ears whenever I talk about baseball.

Before the actual massage, the masseuses asked us a few questions separately. It was a little robotic and awkward. We were ushered into the room through separate doors even though it led to the same place. They seemed insistent about it, too. I wasn’t about to disobey. They could slit my throat or fart in my face during the massage.

We were both asked to strip down to our underwear and I thankfully remembered to wear mine. I was actually given the option to remove it, but in a not-so-subtle way had it insisted upon me to leave them on. No worries. My butt is for Jenny and the eyes of school children on a bus only.

The massage was everything I expected and more. The masseuse started on my back and did her best to permanently paralyze me from the waist down. There were times when I winced. I wanted to cry or kick her to death. It really was quite painful in some parts.

But I knew she didn’t go to Harvard Massage School without learning a trick or three. I endured the pain and let her do her worst. Every man who ever wronged her, for those 90 minutes, I was them.

When it ended I wanted more. How could it be done already?

We paid and the front desk people made a half-assed attempt at selling us a membership. We didn’t get one because we know the trick in life is to buy Groupons and never become repeat customers anywhere even if it means giving up quality for a few savings.

I would definitely love to get massages more regularly. However, we’re not wealthy enough to do it. On the “fuck you money” bracket, we’re a long way away. Plus, we’re totally cheap.

Instead, we’re going to try to learn how to give each other massages. Which, as a result, will make the other want a hand massage after.

You have to respect masseuses. They grope ugly bodies all day long and risk carpal tunnel. If NFL football players ever kneel during an advertisement for a massage parlor, they’ll certainly lose me as a viewer; in a hypothetical sense at least. The last football game I watched ended when the police asked me to leave if my kid wasn’t playing.