A few minutes into my massage in the Seychelles, the Balinese masseuse asked if I had any aches or pains. Yes, I said, my back and shoulders could use some attention. The masseuse grabbed a five-rupee coin, about the size of a quarter, from my dresser. “I give you rupee massage,” she said and began swiping the serrated edge of the coin along my spine, rib cage and shoulders, in much the same way one might tenderize meat. “Hurt?” she asked. Yes. Lots! But my reply was muffled as I bit down on a towel. Such is the machismo protocol of massage: Stubborn guys like me would never let a masseuse, especially a tiny female, know she’d exceeded our threshold for pain. “Suppose to hurt,” she says. “That mean it work.” Like a massage drone, I tipped before leaving and went outside. My wife shrieked: “Did you fall onto a barbecue grill?” The scars lasted for two weeks; whenever I took off my shirt at the beach, people edged away, an experience I’ve since titled “My Life as a Leper.” My original aches and pains? They’ve never bothered me again. — Bob Morris
