RELAX....AS IF.....

This story is quite dated also.  I should say, I have since found a wonderful masseuse, this time a woman.  Everyone should have one..... 

For years my close friends have been telling me that I need to learn the art of relaxation.  This is not something that comes naturally to me.

Last year for my birthday, Dorothy purchased a gift certificate and urged me to get a massage.  She extolled the virtues of said massage, explaining that she feels like jelly when she attempts to walk to her car thereafter.  The certificate is still in my possession.  I just haven’t been able to bring myself to make the call.

Dear Donna is less casual in her approach.  For Christmas, I received gift certificates to a spa; this time for massage, pedicure and manicure.  I’ve done the pedicure and manicure thing before, and yes, I find it fun and relaxing.  However, this whole massage notion still seemed like an uncomfortable concept.

To assure compliance, Donna hounded me until I agreed to a date on Spring Break week and then she efficiently scheduled us for these relaxation services together.   Not taking any chances, she even picked me up for the outing.

For weeks before the grand event and for the entire ride to the spa, she continued to prime me.   “It will be fine.  You won’t need to worry about anything.  It may seem strange at first, but just relax and it will be great.  When we get there, they will ask you some questions.  They’ll show you to a little room where you get changed.  You take off all your jewelry and slip into a nice fluffy robe.” (warning sirens, red flags……)  “No really, it will be fine.  She will be very careful to keep the parts of you she isn’t working on ‘covered.’  They’ll ask you if you want light, medium, or deep massage.  They’ll ask you about what scents you prefer.”  Okay, I had a question.  How do I know if I prefer light, medium, or deep pressure when the only massages I’ve ever had were from Jim?  “It will be fine.  The massage therapists are very professional.  I’ve had 50 massages.  Don’t worry.”

We were running a bit late.  We drove into the parking lot with our internet directions in hand.  There were more reassurances from Donna.  She could hardly wait to see my reaction.

We were shown to dressing rooms, side by side.  I heard the first massage therapist arrive.  She asked Donna if she was ready and they were off.   I am apparently slow to disrobe when I am tense with trepidation.  Taking some deep breaths which were learned with childbirth, I exited the dressing room.

“Hi, I’m Darren”…………. (Hi, I’m leaving……) My massage therapist unfortunately arrived sporting a Y chromosome.  The previously grape-sized lump in my throat grew to a kiwi.  Should I run?  Should I explain that I would most rather sustain a fractured femur than follow this man in white up the stairs to the massage table?  Should I scream for Donna to come and save me?  “Would you like to use the facilities before we go up?”  Finding my voice, I answered yes so that I could lock a door between us, look into the mirror and scream soundlessly.

Sadly realizing I couldn’t hide in the rest room forever I attempted to gather my wits about me and convince myself that this was a professional massage therapist.  I reluctantly followed him to the dreaded massage table.

“Make yourself comfortable.  This is your home for the next hour.”  I began to realize that chances were pretty good this would be the longest 60 minutes of my life.  The music was ‘pling plinging’ in a most annoying manner akin to Chinese water torture.  The lights were low and there were scents wafting from the cabinets.   The odors were from all manner of bottle and jar; the result of which was a somewhat nauseating potpourri.  Granted on a normal day with nobody about to massage me, and especially no male-type person, these scents may have been considered pleasing.

As I lay face down with my head in this strange holder and my eyes at full panic, I calculated how many steps it would take to grab the white robe (which was now hanging on the door) and scream loud enough for Donna (in the room across the hall) to hear me as I continued down the stairs and out the door.  Since I’d have to pause long enough to retrieve the pink sandals, my guess was that it would be a less than smooth retreat.  I tried instead to take more of those deep breaths.

He asked the question I was told to anticipate.  Light, medium, or deep?  (I have no possible basis on which to answer that question and I would really prefer a chai latte and my clothing back!) so instead I stammered, “I’ve never done this before.”  Of course by that point I’m sure it was obvious.  He started dripping warm things which smelled like Yankee candles on my back.  Okay, the dripping wasn’t so bad, but then the massaging thing started. 

I’m sure Darren tried his best to make me feel at ease; however, I mostly felt that this massage table would make a very effective torture device.  I believe Darren chose ‘deep massage’ on his own and I say that because it is the only possible explanation I have for the sensation of having every muscle in my body (who knew I had that many?!) kneaded and abused.  Sure, you wonder why I didn’t open my mouth to say, “Ouch!  The pain is excruciating!”  Well I’ve thought about that too.  With the benefit of hindsight I believe it was because by that point I had effectively mentally left my body altogether and was just floating nearby in shock that someone would go have this kind of treatment on purpose.  I’ve honestly checked my legs three times this morning as I’m convinced I will find bruising.  Nothing so far. 

The whole ‘wondering what was to come next’ may have been the worst part.  You just never knew which part was going to be uncovered for the next round of assault.  A caution to never massage legs was a familiar theme during my nursing school years.  Massaging legs increases a patient’s risk for the release of blood clots.  Just great.  What a place to die of a stroke or a pulmonary embolus.  I was ever so thankful that most of the massage took place while I could face downward and that the nice little fabric covered my eyes when flipped over like a pancake.  I couldn’t wait for it all to end.

I was surprised and relieved to discover that the treatment for arms, hands and scalp was nearly relaxing and fortunately came near the end when every nerve ending was at full frazzle.  

After 60 minutes of hard labor, his words, “I’m going to bring you back to earth now” may have been the most wonderful and anticipated of my life.  I could hardly wait to don my robe and get downstairs to my manicure.

Having chosen my nail color and sipped my stemmed glass of ice water, Donna soon arrived.  She looked completely relaxed and refreshed.  She attempted to catch my eye to see what I thought, but there was not at first opportunity to share.

Donna and I were assigned two lovely manicurists to finish our day.  They looked like they work out 6 hours each day, have personal hair stylists, and recently took turns stepping out of a glamour magazine.  Thankfully they were sweet.  After our manicures, we proceeded to the fabulous pedicure stations (I REALLY need one of those at home…)and were finally side-by-side to have a chat.  Donna attempted the massage chair but as I had already experienced enough massage to last for a year or so, I declined.   When both of our manicurists were otherwise occupied, I leaned over to Donna and gave her three simple words.  “Hi, I’m Darren.”   Her horror was instant.  “What?!  You have to be kidding me!  They don’t even HAVE a male massage therapist!”  I assured her they do.  When she saw him many moments later she did little to put my fears to rest as she deemed him every bit male.  In the following hour or so, I watched Donna’s emotions surge between the original shocked horror to something resembling indignant resolution.  On top of that, I have never seen her so apologetic.  That was such a sad thing as her original intent was so caring and generous.  As her feet were soaked, scrubbed and painted, she began practicing her speech to the spa owner. It was at that point I began begging that she use the comment box instead.  Unfortunately, our two manicurists had now returned and seemed to be just as appalled as Donna that she was not informed of the Y chromosome when making the appointment.  They effectively egged her on until she could not help but enlighten the owner as we got ready to leave.  Mid-way through her conversation (which likely appeared a tirade to unknowing onlookers) I was in enough discomfort to TAKE the keys she had offered me earlier and go wait in the car.  It felt like being rescued by my mother. 

Well, our nails look fabulous.  I’m afraid any relaxation Donna received from her massage (which DID by the way practically put her to SLEEP) was completely worn off before we even left the spa.  She had to phone her husband Todd, who predictably had evil things to say between hoots of laughter.  We had a nice dinner, disturbed only by the occasional rehashing of massage tales.

I learned a lot of important lessons during my evening out.  I learned that one should say “light” when ordering a massage.  I learned that one should always ask the gender of the masseuse.  I learned that it is much easier to find yourself in a vulnerable position than one might think.  I learned that my friends love me dearly.  I learned that I probably should have used that gift certificate from that nice girl Dorothy knows so I would have known what to expect.  (I may actually DO that now as how could it be any worse?!)  Donna is many amazing things.  She is loyal, helpful, generous to a fault, and ready to give you the clothes off her back (or heaven forbid, MY back as recently evidenced…) But until last night I didn’t realize what an incredible CHICKEN she is.  She refused to come inside with me to view my new quilt top as she was convinced Jim would assign blame for our stress therapy debacle.  My wonderful husband was less than thrilled when I told him about my evening, but he has no intention of pressing charges J  I told him I don’t ever have to do that again, and he assured me without hesitation that I WOULDN’T.   Yet another episode for the annals of my life.  Perhaps the most important thing I’ve discovered through this experience?  I can now tell my friends with certainty that relaxation is highly overrated.