After my contortion act while boogie-boarding in the waves a couple of weekends ago, my back hasn't quite been the same. It's getting better, but it's still sore.
A couple of days ago I scheduled a much-needed massage. Alex referred me to a therapist he's used frequently in the past. His name is Tim Sutton, and he was excellent. He works out of his very nice massage space in Hell's Kitchen, and he's trained in various forms of massage. I chose sports massage, and he obliged by reducing me to mush
After the appointment, I staggered to the subway, stopping for a drink at a corner deli. As I was deciding what to buy, I was annoyed to find that the guy behind the counter was checking on me to see if I was shoplifting.
I realized when I got home exactly why: my hair was a mess, my shirt was half tucked in, and my eyes were half open. I looked like I was on heroin.
You too can have that just-shot-up look. Just email me, and I'll be happy to give you Tim's information. Be sure to tell him JOHN sent you. (Sorry, Alex. I'm getting the credit, not you!)