Tickling, or What My Husband Calls, "Massaging Your Ribcage"

After staring at a computer screen all day, editing 240 page documents and converting heaven-knows-how-many website pages...my shoulder hurt.
Mind you, this is no gentle ache.
It's a punt-you-in-the-balls-with-army-boots kind of pain. A, "I have rabid feminist eating through my tendons" kind of ache.
Annoying and unnecessary.
Naturally, I came home yesterday and invoked the vows of marriage. For better or worse, camel hump back or Olympic gymnast shoulders...I needed my husband to rub my back.
Turns out, this was much harder than anticipated, mostly because my husband is ADHD. However, he finally agreed to rub my shoulders for ten minutes. About 30 seconds in, he sighed.

James: Jessa, this is so boring. It's like playing with putty, except worse because you can't do anything with it.

Me: Holy Shrimpfest, James. It's been less than a minute.

James: It's been three hours. And counting.

Me: Would you massage me if I was pregnant?

James: Yes, but...your shoulder doesn't DO anything interesting.

Me: Just think of the knots in my back are like little babies. Little knot babies.

James: Ew. I'm uncomfortable now.

Me: Do you love me enough to massage me?

James: No. I'm not there yet. That's not a level I can reach.

Me: I need you to massage me!

James: Just drink some water, take a motrin and we'll come back to it.

Me [mumbling into the pillow]: I've heard that before.

[silence for two minutes]

James: I'm bored. This is so boring.

Me: It's been two minutes.

James: That was thirty minutes ago.

Me: Liar! You've BARELY done anything!

James: Jessa. I'm bored. This is the most bored I've ever been in my life.

Me: The Airforce once made you sit motionless in a chair for FOUR HOURS!

James: That was a carneval compared to this.

[silence.]

James: Has it been ten minutes yet? It's been like an hour.

Me: It's been four minutes.

James: Ugh. I'm so BORED. [starts poking at my back]

[pauses]

Me: If you stop early I'm going to start charging you interest on the minutes you owe me.

James: Geez. The SovietSocialistRepublic of Eldridge sucks.

Me: You now owe me four minutes in interest.

James: This won't end well for you.

*Epilogue: At about 9 minutes, he yelled something about tyranny and rebellion before stopping. I told him that he would accrue interest on his remaining 1 minute.
That didn't go over well.
Apparently, tickling me for two minutes earlier that day counted as massaging my ribcage, and so technically he had given me an 11-minute massage.
My shoulder still hurts.