YOU SAW the dog in the chair in the previous post. In this week's column, the chair takes on a starring role.
The lap of luxury: Massage chair doesn't know when to let go
We recently bought a massage chair. Our last chair died a quiet death. A message flashed on the control panel asking us to turn off the main power switch. I pulled the plug with a heavy heart. The chair had kneaded us faithfully for six years.
My period of mourning lasted two minutes, right until my wife said, "We have to buy a new chair immediately!" We raced to the computer to compare prices.
Ahhh, there it was, the Family Medical Chair Robostic FMC 6500, the Ferrari of massage chairs.
Two hours later, we ordered the chair at a local Nojima outlet. We got a good deal.
The next Sunday, two guys showed up. The chair was in a couple of large boxes. One man shook his head; the other said he didn't think the chair would fit through the door. My wife said it would fit or else. I grunted menacingly; the dog growled.
She was right. An hour later, the men departed, taking the old chair away for suitable disposal.
I looked at my wife out of the corner of my eye. She seemed absorbed in the direction booklet. I took a tentative step toward the chair. Too tentative. She dropped the directions, leaped and shouted, "You snooze, you lose!"
On Monday evening, I came home from work and eyed the beauty sitting in the living room. It looked gorgeous in the dim light. "You're all mine, baby," I whispered. With the TV remote in one hand, I stroked the chair's high-quality fake red leather with the other.
I climbed in and pushed the power button. The chair spoke. Roughly translated, it said, "Lean your head back so I can adjust myself to your pressure points." I was happy to take orders from a machine. Next, I flipped open a hatch on the right arm rest, and the joystick slowly emerged with a thrilling, sci-fi whirr.
A cool-looking blue light winked on as I fiddled with the device. I pushed it forward, and the chair whacked me hard; I pulled back and it eased off. I considered opening the balcony door. Maybe I could fly this thing into space.
I groaned with pleasure as air bags inflated, squeezed my calves and "rubbed" my feet--a feature our old chair lacked. With a smile and a sigh I turned on the TV.
"Arrrgh!" High-definition,
giant-screen European soccer. Fabulous floppers! Diving dandies! As I frantically fumbled with the remote, the "action" came to a halt. A swarm of the ad-clad whiners surrounded the referee and began chirping like baby birds.
The remote slipped from my fingers and skittered across the floor. I tried to jump out of the chair. Ouch! Only half of me made it. The air bags gripped my ankles and wouldn't let go. I was trapped! A soccer twit whipped off his shirt and offered the crowd a Euro-pout.
Crud. I moaned, closed my eyes, plugged my ears and
waited in the darkness for the chair to release me.
(IHT/Asahi: April 7,2007)