The aching tomato

I happened to get caught in the elevator with a partner who was, prior to his current stint at SuperFirm, special counsel to that former Vice President who was a particularly dull tool in a not particularly sharp shed. You know who I mean. This partner is, surprise surprise, a raging conservative who would routinely quote passages from "Unfit for Command" to anyone within earshot before November 2nd silenced all, pros and cons. At any rate, I don't mind him as much as you'd think- he's actually kind of funny. On the long elevator ride we searched for conversation and he lamented that his back was hurting from shovelling snow. "Ah," I said, "you ought to get a massage." Of course the typical Alpha male response to this would be "Yeah, umm... I'm not really into that." But this guy was, in fact, on his way to Urban Oasis, perhaps the poshest, meterosexual-est spa in all Chicagoland. "Can't let this thing fester. Got to get it taken care of now," He said, overly-clinically, I thought, for a man en route to a place where they serve verbena tisane and play digeridoo music.
"It's funny," he continued, "my masseuse says that the vast majority of her clients are lawyers." Of course we are. Chair-bound (ergonomic or otherwise), stressed-out, UCC-spouting fools be we denziens of the Bar. But at least we can afford to go to pretty, strange-smelling places where we can pretend to calm down while we get the shit pummeled out of us.