"I am not an animal!"

My mom always said I was like a dog, because I like to be "touched" so much. Before your mind begins to wander, allow me to define what "touch" means to me. "Touch" is not tickled, it is not slapped on the bum (once again, that one is for Jon), and it certainly does not equate to being pinched on St. Patricks Day because my green shirt was in the laundry. "Touch" equates a couple simple, yet when applied correctly (and by the right person) joyful, even gleeful techniques: massage/backrub and backscratch. It is not my fault. I was born this way. From a young age, I learned the technique of leaning over at church and lovingly bumping my mom with my shoulder to indicate that the time for a caring backscratch had arrived. After family prayer, I learned the art of uttering a painful groan and sprawling to the floor, only to feel the loving hands of a loving mother ease they itches in my back. On my mission, I learned the art of using the backmassage technique to ease tension in a companionship and strengthen companionship unity. It gave my companion and chance to serve his companion (me), and it allowed my blood pressure to even out. And goodness, who doesn't LOVE being a recipient of a gentle "scratch" when watching General Conference with your favorite girl?! I don't like dogs, but I realize that my mom's comparison is one that has brought a lot of joy and "relief" in my life.

Unfortunately, the other day I received the familiar "touch" from an all too unfamiliar source. I was waiting in line at the Provo Social Security Administration to apply for another social security card. I was number 97. I had waited about 20 minutes when they called 95. "Almost there," I thought. As I was wondering what I was going to eat for lunch that day, a group of four women walked into the place. Let me describe them. They all had tattoos or "tats" for short. They were all over 5'10" and looked like they and Charles Barkley would have matched up favorably in the post. Oh yeah, they were also all scantily clothed. Hey, this scene was not at all unusual for a place such as the Social Security Administration at 1 p.m. on a Monday afternoon, and I found them rather entertaining in their snide remarks to one another. I once again started wondering, pondering you might say, about what I was going to eat for lunch, and I didn't even notice that they came and sat next to me. That is until I felt that familiar "touch" against my back. My initial reaction? Heaven. They weren't the small, soft, cute hands that I had felt so many times before, but rather rough and thick ("She had 'man' hands!"), however they were scratching my back and it felt good. I was able to suppress a noise of satisfaction. When I came to my senses, I slowly turned my head to look at the giver of such a gift, and I saw a woman smiling at me with teeth that would have made even Michael Strahan proud. She then said to me, "How you doin' son?!" Fine, thanks. How are you?" I replied. Her friend then chided in, "Don't you pay her any mind, we don't let her off the mountain very often."
Her daughter, also arrayed in colorful tattoos walked in and asked, "Mother, what are you doin'?!"
She responded, "I am just makin' me some new friends," and then cackled with loud laughter.
I could manage only a nervous smile. I couldn't help but notice her hand moved with considerable rythmn from side-to-side and how she changed her finger pressure with surprising fluidity and confidence. "Nice technique," I thought. 96. Almost there. Her hand continued from side-to-side. Left-to-right. And then right-to-left. She sure knew how to make me stay on my toes. And then it was over. 97. It was my number. I quickly mumbled something like, "Alright, that's me," and stood up, noticing that I felt the calm and peace that comes only from the gentle "touch" of a backscratch or back massage. The teller could tell I was visibly shaken, and he mercifully attempted to engage me in witty conversation to avert my mind. It didn't work, but I was deeply appreciative. After finishing my business at the Social Security Administration, I made my move. I pulled out my cell phone and contorted my face as if I had just received a really confusing text message. As I walked past "the gang," eye contact was successfully avoided. I had made it. Never before had I been so grateful to conclude an honestly soothing backscratching session, but it had to be done.
I am not a dog. Sure, I love a good backscratch or massage. Who doesn't? But this much I do know. "I am not an animal!" I have boundaries. And, after getting a back massage from an unknown mountainwoman at the Provo Social Security Administration at 1 p.m. on a Monday afternoon, I realized that my boundary had been breached. First time--shame on you. Second time--shame on me. My boundaries have been set. A second time...? I don't think so.