Plus it took place in front of the Disney Store.

(This is Mall Mishaps #2, not to be confused with Mall Mishaps #1, re:  the Whorehouse That is Build-a-Bear Workshop.)

Last week, desperate to look at anything besides the deluge that had quickly become the Great Flood of 2010, Aura and I headed over to the mall, that bastion of rainy-day escape. We spent a good chunk of time on the top level, peering down at the mall’s resident Easter Bunny from the safety of the second-floor railing. A raging debate ensued, covering everything from the probable friendliness of the bunny to the comfort level of his lap to how well he would hold up against the Other Bunny at the Other Mall, the one we have visited loyally for two years.

Aura considered the fact that this bunny wore glasses a particularly thorny issue. It was while we were weighing how the bunny’s bespectacled state might affect her willingness to take a picture with him when my attention began to wander. I let my eyes roam over other parts of the first floor: CVS, a kiosk selling smoothies, a Hallmark store, Sears.

And then I saw it.

Splayed out on one of those chairs with the face-holes, an elderly, rather corpulent man was getting a rubdown at a massage kiosk, the masseuse’s hands working away under his velour Members Only shirt. “EEEEEWWWW!” I exclaimed. “She’s not even wearing GLOVES!” I announced in horror to Aura, who remained unimpressed and instead expounded upon a new theory she had regarding bunny furriness and the consequent sit-ability potential.

I whipped out my camera, intent on documenting the grossness for a blog post that I initially imagined would be much, much better than this one is turning out to be. But as I was focusing, the man left, leaving only the woman and her massage chairs in the frame, as shown above. I decided to snap away anyway, not realizing until it was too late that the camera flash was kind of noticeable. Making eye contact with me as I lowered the camera, the woman bolted from her massage station, running along the first floor until she was directly below our spot at the railing. As she started waving her doubtlessly back-germ-covered hands up at us and muttering what I’m certain were obscenities in another language, I grabbed Aura. “TIME FOR LUNCH!” I declared, and we made a run for the food court.

One salad and an order of chicken nuggets later, I finally felt it was safe to leave the food court without being pelted with massage oil. Aura and I leisurely headed for the mall exit, lingering here and there to window shop. I kept yawning as we walked. “Excuse me!” I said to Aura after my tenth yawn in 45 seconds. “I don’t know why I’m so sleepy! I need to find a dose of energy!”

And then I saw it.

The in-mall massage storefront. Complete with open-to-public-viewing tables. Also, NO GLOVES IN SIGHT.

Disgusting as I found this, I was subsequently relieved to identify a possible explanation for my continuing exhaustion. All this time I thought I had fatigue. But as you can see from the red circling on the sign below, I have been a victim of something else entirely:

Patigue just makes so much more sense these days. Hell, I might make an appointment after all. Anyone want to come along? Moral support–and hand sanitizer–is always welcome.

(Alert! We have a winner for the Amazon gift card! The Random Number Generator has chosen Taryn, who also happens to write one of my favorite blogs, Inner Fat Girl. Congrats, Taryn! May many vampire-themed books find their way to you. Or George Michael biographies. I’ll allow those, too.)