A human footstool taught me a valuable life lesson
Jason describes himself as a human footrest. He likes the idea of people resting their tired feet on him so much that he offers to pay 20 euros an hour in return.
“What’s the catch here?” I ask him over the phone.
“It’s a genuine offer,” he replies.
“And I want to be clear that it only involves feet,” he adds.
“Basically all you need to do is just sit back, put your feet on me and relax. You can also either carry on with your work or your studies and that’s it. Just think as if I’m not there at all. And you won't even notice me.”
I cannot bring myself to imagine how it could possibly work. First off, I notice everything. Even the seven-spotted ladybugs hiding in tiny crevices. Secondly, I cannot sit still. Not even for five minutes. Thirdly, I have ticklish feet. Hyper-ticklish.
By now Jason can smell hesitation in my voice. Yet he makes one last attempt to make me feel comfortable. “The session can be done at your place or mine if you prefer. I'm happy to accommodate.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“I am 28. Why? Does it bother you?”
“No, not at all. Ummm... I am actually married,” I blurt out like an idiot.
“In that case, I am happy to offer you and your partner 20 euros each. If you want, you can use me for your friends too,” he speaks with such casual exuberance that I feel intimidated.
“Okay cool. Let me get back to you on this,” I conclude hurriedly and disconnect.
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| A few years ago I made a living out of teaching adults how to make small talk. |
Looking for dirt
Here’s the thing. Before you start judging me, let me tell you that I made this call in an attempt to do some lazy “telephone-journalism”. And at that time, it seemed like the most creative way to procrastinate my existing work assignment.
My motivation was simple though: Intrigue. Jason was doing something I would never do. And even if I did, I’d never pay anyone to avail my service. If anything, I’d make them pay for being their footstool.
There were urgent questions burning in my head as I read through his online post on Craigslist: Get a footrest service and earn some pocket money in return.
Was he conducting a social experiment? Was he part of some psychoanalytical cult lab? Or did he simply have a fetish for such transactions? I needed to know this. So I cleverly brought this up during our brief conversation. I am not sure what I wanted to hear but I was definitely not convinced with his answer.
I asked him the same question about four times in many different shapes and forms. But his answer remained consistent. Serving as a footstool gave him pleasure. And that was it. There was a refreshing honesty in his voice that eventually made me believe in his intent.
It also made me question my own intent. Why was it so hard for me to comprehend that Jason found pleasure in something radically different? Why could I not just easily accept it? Why did I want to get to the bottom of it? Why was I looking for dirt?
It’s probably because I have been conditioned to see things through the lens of societal prejudice. That sometimes even dictates what pleasure could be and could possibly not be. Or shouldn’t be. Anything that punches holes into the social fabric of our lives, we tend to render it abnormal. No matter how harmless it is. That’s just how intolerant we have grown to be.
Rationalising pleasure
A few years ago I made a living out of teaching adults how to make small talk. It was probably one of the best odd jobs I did. I met all kinds of people with contrasting values and insecurities. My job was to train their mouths to automatically talk about weather, sports, media etc. even if their minds were engaged elsewhere.
It was a challenging exercise. And yet I enjoyed it. It put all my academic degrees and certificates to shame. And yet I enjoyed it. There wasn’t a whole lot of money in it. And yet I enjoyed it. Thoroughly.
For once I felt liberated. Out of the tight seams of business skirts and the claustrophobic corporate cubicles that block freethinking. I didn’t have to be a project manager every day. I didn’t have to report to anyone. I didn’t have to prove anything.
I could just be. Make mistakes. Walk in another person’s shoes. Learn to empathise. Or as Jason said, “I do it because it gives me pleasure. I don’t rationalise it.”
But unfortunately we live in a society where we tend to rationalise even our tiniest of pleasures. Be it a dreamy nap in the middle of the day or a leisurely hike in the meadows, we are always seeking to get something out of it. As if pleasure in itself is not enough to justify the act.
I wish I could say I hear you Jason. I get it...