Forget Google, Bliss is a company with some growth ahead of them.

No one is better placed to capitalize on the young-women-as-crones phenomenon, which is bound to continue until diapers for children and old people are sold with identical branding. Bliss gives you that well-off, middle-aged woman feeling in a consumer-friendly package.

And critically, they have gift cards. Eventually every woman, gay man, and maybe even straight man will receive one of their gift cards. It’s genius.

I got mine a few months ago, a reward for a job… done. The card came in excellent packaging, with some creamy stuff in bottles that I immediately passed off to MrLittlePants. And then I began to feel terror.

A haircut with shampoo is the closest I’ve come to a massage. I don’t really believe in that bullshit. And by “that bullshit,” I don’t mean it’s worthless. I mean that unwealthy, practical-minded people like me have no business knowing about, thinking about, desiring, and certainly not getting a “massage” at a “spa.”

But it was great. And much appreciated. More on that later.

One thing to know when you’re given your Bliss gift card is there’s no reason to delay calling the spa. Yes, you’re terrified, but they won’t have an appointment available for a few weeks anyway, particularly if you want a weekend slot.

When you call, have in mind if you would prefer a masseur or masseuse. Note for straight men: if in doubt, go with a female. Not that the massage will be at all sexual. But you’ll be in closer contact with the masseur than you have probably ever been with a man in your whole straight life. You might feel better working up to the old mano-a-mano on your second trip.

And here’s the one criticism of Bliss’s otherwise excellent service: you will be required to give your credit card number to make an appointment for your gift massage. Does that sound right? If it does (Bliss management , I’m talking to you!) bang your head into the screen now.

You okay? Well it’s not “okay” to ask people who’ve been given a gift to produce a credit card as soon as they try to use it. Take the damn gift card number, if you must have something with which to penalize me if I cancel.

On top of that, Bliss never called to confirm that all-important appointment. Hmm. If I were a cynic, just looking for a reason to not like your spa, you gave me two reasons that add up to shake-down.

So ends the negative portion my Bliss experience. Everything else—oh wait, five broken lockers out of fifteen is not good!—ahem—the rest was beautiful. Everyone did everything possible to make me relaxed and happy.

There is a shower. If you aren’t able to shower immediately before coming, you will want to use it. Then you will want to remove all of your clothing (yes, all of it) to don only the robe and flip-flops. I chickened out and wore underwear, but you’ll find later that it’s more comfortable without. (MrLittlePants, don’t read that the wrong way.)

Place a cash tip in the pocket of your robe. That may seem vaguely gangster or reckless, but you’re never more than a few feet away from the robe and it makes things easier later.

Your masseur will be waiting outside to take you to “the room with the bed.” When you enter the room, he’ll turn back the sheet on the bed, then leave, telling you to disrobe and lie on the bed face up.

Getting into the bed and under the covers will feel infantile. Do it anyway. Do not lie as I did, halfway under the covers in my underwear and hedging all my bets, because this will cause the masseur to react with alarm upon his return.

Assuming you manage to get fully under the covers, nude, the hard part is over. The masseur reenters the room; the lights dim; Ella Fitzgerald sings. He’ll manipulate the sheet such that you’re never exposed beyond the, er, bikini line. (And if you ignored my advice and are wearing undies, you’ll both be quite aware of the elastic forming that superflous line.)

Occasionally, he’ll fluff out the sheet exactly as if he were making the bed, or tucking you in. Do not giggle.

Time passes. Minor pain. Recognition that this person knows more about your body than you do. Images of mobsters deciding whom to kill. World leaders plotting war strategies. The commoners outside revolting, and Cosette… dear, sweet Cosette!

After your massage is over, the masseur will leave so that you can robe up and fix your hair. Fix it good. Clutch the cash tip in your right hand—get ready for the hand-off! Open the door, shake hands and you’re done.

(If you bungle that, there’s a clever system of envelopes with to/from labels and a “lockbox” at check-out. Sissy.)