While studying abroad in Madrid I spent about 60% of my time in a gym. The gym contained all of the accoutrements of a typical gym such as weights and locker room, as well as a number of other accoutrements such as a pool where everyone swam naked, a steam room that smelled like menthol, and a bar where most of the men sat to smoke cigarettes, drink whiskey, play dominoes, and eat potato chips for several hours after they finished their workout.

An important feature of the gym was that it provided freshly-laundered short-shorts and “wife beaters” to its members as workout attire. Initially I resisted the outfit because I wasn't wild about showcasing the top three inches of my thighs to the whole of Spain, but once I realized the gym was segregated by sex, I determined that I was only risking being seen by men, most of whom spent their time floating around naked in the pool, or talking about the lottery, or standing naked in the weight room talking to their friends about soccer.

I hadn't thought about the Palladium Club for about five years until yesterday, when I had my first ever massage, courtesy of my mother-in-law who is the only person I know who gives presents for Easter. I’m not totally certain why I've never had a massage but I think it has something to do with a combination of never having tons of extra money to throw around, and not being sold on the idea of paying someone to press down on my shoulder blades while I was either naked, or basically naked, listening to new age music.

I was somewhat nervous when I arrived because I wasn't sure what to expect. When I exited the elevator I was greeted by a tiny woman holding a clipboard. On the clipboard was a release, which, among other things, required me to promise that I would not hold the spa liable if I injured or reinjured myself as a result of the massage and also informed me that I was not permitted to make any sexual advances or innendo to my therapist and that in the event that I did, I would be asked to leave and forced to pay for the session. 

Next I was shown to a dressing room where I was given a silk bathrobe and a pair of slippers that looked like they should have been worn by a Bulgarian exchange student.  Once dressed in my robe I had to walk back into the lobby, which was now inhabited by several people who had not been there three minutes prior.

In the lobby I took a seat on a leather chair and began filling out the rest of my paperwork, which among other things, required me to indicate whether I had lupus. As I was hacking my way through the questions about yoga experience and the use of chiropractors, a middle-aged man glided into the room wearing the black sneakers of a Friendly’s waitress. This man was carrying a towel, introduced himself as Charles, grabbed my clipboard, and motioned for me to join him in a dark room that contained a bed, and a crock pot which contained the words "professional hot stone massage warmer".

Charles placed a bath mat at the edge of the bed and then asked me to get comfortable under the covers. It was at this point that I realized I should have taken off my boxers. I assumed I was supposed to be naked for my massage but when I realized I was going to have to fill out paperwork in a room full of people I decided I would rather risk appearing "bashful" to a massage therapist than "naked" to a room full of middle-aged women.

When he returned he got right to work on my neck and shoulders while asking me about myself, and inquiring about areas of special interest or discomfort. The next 45 minutes flew by and before I knew it, Charles was advising me to take some deep breaths and leaving me to put on my robe. When I emerged into the lobby I felt fantastic. I was sweating profusely and the skin on my chest looked as though I’d been caned like an Indonesian shoplifter.

All in all the experience was better than expected; the massage made me feel better than I have in years, the new age music was almost catchy, and I managed to do it all without making a pass at my therapist.