Confessions of a Massage Junkie

I love a good massage. I love the feeling of complete relaxation as someone else works out the knots and tangles of my stressed muscles. I love it so much that I usually don’t say anything when the masseuse muscles an elbow a little too hard into my back. I have a high tolerance to pain that battles with my love of massage.

I used to go to a hair salon that touted a neck massage as one of their services after the shampoo. Sheer bliss. The man that I saw had those wonderfully strong fingers that slowly rubbed out all the tension. One time as his fingers were working their magic, he inadvertently put me in a strangling headlock with his other arm. I didn’t say a word to make sure he would continue massaging my neck. The preposterous notion of a grown woman sitting there being choked to death just for a 2 minute neck massage finally got the better of me and I started laughing…between sucking breathes of air in as he lightened his hold on my neck.

I came to work today with a “hitch in my giddyup”, as my Mom used to say. My job for the last 100 years (it feels that way) has been sitting at a desk working on the computer. The only thing that moves in this job is my lower half, which is spreading like butter on toast due to the fact that I don’t get up enough so my body parts are conforming to the chair seat. At least that’s how it feels. I think I’ll probably die in an atrophied position at my keyboard. I hope someone notices my sad demise.

I did some yard work Saturday, which as we all know, is a killer to muscles that only know white collar exercise…which would be typing fast. What was I thinking hoisting those bags of dirt and flinging gallon pots of hydrangeas? My Midwest farmer roots came out and took hold I guess. The smell of dirt is spiritual and puts me in some out-of-body (or out of my mind) condition that overrides any doubt about my physical ability to stoop, reach, hoist, and dig for 8 hours.

I also planted lots of seeds in little pots, which I realized after the fact that I had not labeled. My farmer ancestors are shaking their collective planting almanac heads wondering where the fruit of their loins got her brains. I guess I’ll have a “mystery” garden where the carrots will just have to grow along side the delphiniums. Or maybe they’re sweet peas.

There is a grocery store across the street from my work that has a small room with a chair massage service. That’s California for you. If you don’t live in a neighborhood with a grocery store that provides such a service, you are probably rolling your eyes at the very thought of a massage along side the fruits and vegetable department.

Now you know I went there at lunch. The masseuse elbowed and ground his fingers into my tense muscles. “How’s the pressure?” he asked. “Oh, you can ease up on the lower back,” I replied, hoping the dent he was putting into my hip wouldn’t last very long.

Although my back felt moderately better after the massage, I’ve noticed that since I haven’t moved out of my chair for the past 3 hours, my legs do not work as well as they used to. I guess sitting in one position for hours at a time tends to stiffen things up a bit. Maybe I should go back to the grocery store for a good massage and some spinach.

The thing about a kink in your back is that you can limp in the door making sad moaning sounds and your husband will suggest either he cook, or he goes to get take-out food. Score. If you look really pathetic, with a touch of silent suffering (because you’d never want him to know the full extent of your pain because you’re a caring cookie who sure wouldn’t want to be a burden to anyone) you might even get him to rub your achy spots and give you a kiss for good measure. Double Score! Hey…whatever it takes for another massage!

The Pressure of Being a Spa Novice

Just saying the word “spa” conjures up thoughts of leisurely relaxation and high class pampering. You think about rich people going to a spa. Poor people get plug-in shiatsu neck massagers, which despite the advertising claims to be the exact technique of a masseuse, you will notice pretty quickly that the rotating balls in the unit only massage in one place on your neck thereby causing deep friction burns when left too long. It’s not really the same at all is it?

A few years ago, my son gave me a gift certificate to go to a spa that had just opened up. It's an elite place on the second floor above Tommy Bahama's and a hotel. Shopping and pampering. What could be better for any woman?

The spa is an upscale bit of quiet enticement. You walk into a large lobby with a huge rounded counter, wood floors, and shelves with body products. No chairs. This is, after all, just the lobby.

A young girl welcomed me, checked me in, gave me my locker key, the said to wait for my "escort". Another young girl (no old people for spa duty I notice) walked out and took me into the inner sanctum of tranquility. Another huge room...still not to the spa yet mind you...awaits beyond the big doors. On the right are shelves of products, on the left is a sitting area around a fireplace, straight ahead/left is the women's quarters, while right is the men's quarter's.

Walking into the women's quarters you will find the "waiting area". Not an ordinary waiting room I must say. There are recliners. Yes, real recliners with afghans and a light overhead if you should like to read while you're waiting, or turn the light out for a bit of a snooze.

Through the doors I looked up to a very large Jacuzzi (bring your swimsuit!), a steam room, a sauna, showers, any product of your choice to use on your hair and body, shavers, shaving cream, hair dryers and water containers in several places with cucumber, orange, and apple slices, bowls of fruit, special wash clothes soaked in something herbal that smelled good for when you came out of the sauna. I have reached the core of Nervana!

I was given my locker, and as I slipped into the robe, I was struck with the sad fact that the robe...she ain't a goin' around my body. Nope. The "one size fits all" label isn’t even close to my version of "all". I'm never in the "all" category. The label should read: All…except you fatty woman. I hate the person who invented that label.

I pile my clothes back on, and go in search of assistance for a bigger “all” robe. Found the help girl, who gave me a bigger "one size fits all" robe. She probably snuck it from the men's side. But it at least wraps around my body. With a few feet to spare. I hope it makes me look thinner.

Since I had a half an hour to spare, I decided to try all the spa amenities. Drank some fruity water, sniffed some products and inched my way toward the sauna. Spa and sauna. All good things start with an “S”.

Good Lord in Heaven... it's hot in there! Dry heat. Woof.

Just because it's there, I dip a ladle into the water bucket and splash it over the coals just to see what it would do. It gets hotter in the room. Is that possible? I feel very snooty and knowledgeable using the water dipper. I plop myself down on the bench in my ponderous robe. La la la. What does one do when they're all alone and burning up I wonder?

Just relax...let your mind go...think about...I'm thinking about the heat. It's gagging me. Dry heat...no sweat on my body, but my hair feels like it's 150 degrees to the touch. Is that good for hair follicles I wonder?

I notice that there's a lot of worry going on in my head in this place of relaxation. That can't be good.

I walked around in an aimless search for something to occupy me like the other ladies. The steam room (another “S” word). Yes, why not try steam. Much better than the sauna and will make my skin glow like a beacon of rich spa life. But do you wear your robe into the steam room? I'm a rube. I don't know the spa rules. What if I go in there in my robe, and sweat like a pig, then they come get me for the massage and I'm dripping? Won't they suggest I should have used "spa etiquette" and worn something else? And maybe they'll ask that I shower and wash the sweat off, then I'll miss my massage time and they'll tsk tsk and say I should have known better, so now all they'll give me is a quick slap and say my time's up.

Shouldn’t they give you a questionnaire when you come to a spa? Check the correct answer:
Are you a size “all” or would you prefer a bed spread to cover you?
Do you have any idea how to use our spa features, or are you here on a gift certificate and will most likely never return?

I notice a lady about to go into the steam room. She has a towel on under her robe. Aha! I went back to my locker and got my towel, opened my tent-robe, and adjusted the towel around me.

Not even close to covering me up. Oh great. What do I have to ask for? A bath sheet?

Forget the stupid steam room. I hate sweating anyway. I'll keep my lousy toxins.

I ended up in the recliners. What else? Nothing fits, I might as well be the person I really am...a sitter in a room with moderate temperature. Wonder what time it is. Wonder if they'll find me when it's time for my massage. I think I've got another 20 minutes until my appointed time. But there's no clock here. I decide that fretting about whether I'll be found or not is pointless in a place where you're supposed to relax. I flip back in the recliner and look at my plastic shoes. They're slightly too small for my feet. One size fits all. Shouldn't they tell you up front where the bigger clothing items are?

Oh well, I close my eyes and think about ... wonder when they're going to come get me. Oh for heaven's sake.

Finally, a soft little far off voice whispered my name. Wouldn't want to disturb the other resting persons. My masseuse has come! She took me down and around several darkened corridors. It was like going to the harem. Boy, this place is BIG! Ahhhh, we reach the appointed room.

There was soft music and ... something else. Hammering. Now that's disturbing. What sort of treatment would that be? That person must have some SERIOUS knots in their back! I'll have to check the brochure and see what that session would be called...carpenter's revenge? I mention this to the masseuse. She says the darn building owners had some odd bits of work left to do, but were not supposed to be doing it during massage hours. Guess they forgot the massage hours. They don't know the spa rules either. Very distracting.

The massage was pretty good. Except for the table, which didn’t seem as wide as it should be. Now really…I’m not that big! One size fits all table? Don’t they have extensions for REAL women?

The masseuse elbowed the knots out of me....hard. It was called a Swedish massage, and you know how the Swedes are when it comes to knots! As usual, the 90 minutes (which she said was actually an 80 minute massage) went very quickly. Oddly enough, when I got up and shuffled back to my locker, my right ankle hurt. Great. What's that about? The spa broke one of my body parts.

Spa. What a silly sanctuary for svelte-only socialites.

Me…I’ve got a plug-in shiatsu massager.