I had my first professional massage this week and, let me tell you, it was a doozy. I kinda liked it even though I’m writing this while in traction.
I kid, I kid. But I legit feel like a baseball team used my back for batting practice. For such a svelte and sinewy woman, I think my massage therapist tears phone books in half on her days off.
My husband, a massage connoisseur, booked a couple’s appointment when I finally agreed to try it after years of encouragement. I love the concept of massages but I have trouble with the reality of them. I’m a ticklish fusspot with personal space issues so a written description of a massage is more my speed.
Nevertheless, I hopped in the car and let him take me to a joint called Massage BlissLips or some such. It wasn’t until we pulled into the parking lot that something he’d said a few days earlier finally registered. This was a 90-minute appointment!
Now, there are very few things I can tolerate doing for 90 minutes. Binge-watching basically anything on Bravo? Sure. Eating White Castle sliders? You bet. Being covered in sheets and worked over by a total stranger for an hour and a half wasn’t high on my list of things to try.
We went into the little storefront lobby and were quickly ushered into the dimly-lit massage room where two tables were already set up. The therapist told us how to get ready and closed the door behind her. I disrobed and tried to make my way to my table but immediately crashed into a small stool I hadn’t noticed. I wondered if she’d work the knots out of my newly sprained ankle.
We arranged ourselves on the tables, the therapists came in, and the massages got underway. Michael immediately fell into a trance and conked out.
Meanwhile, I lay face down, staring at the ground through the pillow hole and wondered how long a straw I’d need if they put a bowl of water on the floor for me.
I was starting to get the gist of how this massage thing worked, so I relaxed a little and tried not to pay attention to the spa music that was a little bit Lion King and a little bit didgeridoo. After a few minutes, the tech asked if the pressure was all right. Listen, I work out and lift heavy weights so I can take a little pain. “Sure! You can even go harder if you want.”
Oh, lort. That was so stupid. The therapist started in with her fingers, palms, elbows, arms, and maybe even a ball-peen hammer. I think at one point she walked across my back with spiked heels. About 47 knots in my back lined up like little soldiers and she went after them like it was, well, her job.
She massaged my legs and I tried not to squirm and yelp because it tickled. She massaged my feet while I hoped she wouldn’t judge me for their janky dry patches. She massaged my hands as I mulled over the shabby state of my fingernails. It was hard to relax while considering all the ways I failed at being the ideal client. At least I’d shaved my legs.
I’ll admit that I enjoyed it overall. In fact, I told Michael I’d like to do it again –– as long as he gives me enough lead time to get my nails done first.
Update: This post has been in the queue for a few of days and I’ve had a change of heart. I’m still sore to the point that I can’t even roll over in bed without my back feeling like it has 900 bruises, which makes sleeping a bitch. Totally my fault for encouraging the therapist to apply more pressure, I get it.
I think I’ll take a pass on more massages for the time being. I’m in enough existential pain, I don’t need it physically too.