Adventures at the Brookstone

So I snuck a little more funemployment in yesterday.  Twas the last guaranteed day of golf weather, so I went out.  Shot 102, my best round ever, which is an especially big deal when you spent four months hitting everything — and I mean everything — to the right.
Only one way to wrap up a day like that — with a massage.  At the Brookstone Spa, of course.
That’s right.  From time to time, I go to the mall and spend as long as I can in the massage chairs at Brookstone.  Some of you are probably thinking, “Bomani, don’t you worry about people knowing who you are when you do something so incontrovertibly bootleg?”
The answer — nope.  Anyone that knows me would be anything but surprised that I’d do that.  In fact, I’ve always hoped that being known would encourage someone to go get me a drink or something.  I’m saying…maybe the salespeople liked the show, yanno?
So I sit down in my usual chair and start to get comfy.  Next thing I know, someone on the clock comes up and recommends I try the chair on the other end.  He says it’s the “Cadillac” of their chairs.  I mean, I like Cadillacs.  Why not?
Switched chairs, and it was the bestest.  The only thing, however, was this cat was really, really trying to sell me this chair.  Now, I must admit that I hate when salespeople assume I’ve no plan of buying something, or that I can’t afford something, and then don’t come over and help me.  This time, however, I had no plan of buying anything, and I do NOT have $3,000 for a chair, whether it gives massages or anything else.  Please leave me alone so I can relax and think about my round of golf.
Dude wasn’t going anywhere, I tell you.  Anywhere.  But he messed up and told me that you could plug an iPod into the chair, and the massage would be synced with the beat.  Coincidentally, I had my iPod in my pocket.
Man, you haven’t lived until you’ve gotten a massage synced to the first five tracks of Bob Marley’s “Kaya.”  It plays in speakers near your year, and the massage goes with the bass.  Man, great great living.  I just sat there and wondered how wonderful the world was.  Just greatness.
Until this cat comes BACK talking about their myriad payment options.  He really, really thought I was about to buy this chair.  No idea how none of his co-workers told him, “he be in here all the time…he ain’t buying shit.”  But he came.  Like he couldn’t hear me listening to reggae.
Then came his buddies, and they started running a tag team on me to try to buy this chair.  But seeing how, in a tag team match, it’s only one person at a time, it was more like the referee turned around and I was getting jumped.  So I figured out how to weasel from this…
“Well, I actually have to talk about my wife about this.  She has to OK a purchase this.”
Some of you are thinking, “Bomani, when did you get married?”  The answer — I didn’t.  If she says she’s my wife, ask to see a picture of me in a tux.
Next thing I know, this dude is trying to give me advice on how to sell my wife on this.  I mean no disrespect to the dude, but I didn’t see him as a cat to help me with my rap.  To any woman.  About anything.  Especially not to a woman that didn’t exist.
I tell him that she’s cheap.  He comes with another strategy.  Like he knows my wife better than I do.  As if I’ve got a wife (well, he didn’t know that).
By this time, I’ve missed “Misty Morning” on the album.  Now I’m mad.  I tell dude I’m gonna step right outside and call my wife and see what she thinks.  I haven’t been back since.
Few weeks ago, they moved the massage chairs by the door.  I think the goal was to shame freeloaders.  I was born without shame.
That said, I think the adventures of the Brookstone Spa are done.  All that helpfulness has burned me out.
Psssh…whatever.  I’ll just start going to the one at another mall.  I work too hard to not get massages just because they cost money.
But the least I can do — check out the chairs at the Brookstone Spa.  They’re great.  Try ’em out.