Granted, this realization didn’t have any far-reaching consequences. Nor had I been pondering it for any length of time. This realization occurred to me while lying, naked, under a sheet as a masseuse kneaded deeply and somewhat painfully into the washboard muscles of my upper back. This was definitely not pampering. And, lacking a propensity toward sadomasochism, it didn’t fall into the indulgence category either. I wasn’t entirely sure how to define the experience as it was happening.
When it was all said
and done, it isn’t that I minded being roughed up at the hands of a tiny, older
woman, not much larger than an eight year old. It just wasn’t what I was
expecting. I’d never had a professional massage before. Other people had mention
it but it seemed indulgent and I hadn’t given it much thought. Not that I think I'm unworthy. I'm not, I just hadn’t before considered giving myself this particular benevolence.
Sometime along about
February, though, when it was still snowing and cold and my dissertation seemed
like an endless project that would torment me for all eternity, sort of like
the damnation of doctoral studies, I saw a Living Social deal for an inexpensive
massage at a location near my home and I decided, impulsively, to buy it.
The point in buying
it was to treat myself to something decadent after walking through the fiery
streets of dissertation hell. I figured my choices were to use it upon
finishing the manuscript, as a celebratory indulgence where I would be doted
upon lavishly in sort of ‘queen-for-a day’ reverence; or upon deciding the task
was impossible and quitting, as a healing balm of merciful self-pity.
Ultimately, celebratory
indulgence won out.
Once I successfully completed
my dissertation defense, I made an appointment for the massage, feeling
perfectly entitled in offering myself this charity. I anticipated the royal
massage treatment.On the morning of the appointment, the friendly, albeit miniature, massage therapist showed me to a rather austere, dimly lit room with a bed in the center. Well, okay. This wasn’t the ambiance I had expected. She left and I undressed, scuttled under the sheet, and waited. A few minutes later she came in the room and started the massage. She was very professional and explained what she was doing, which one part of my brain appreciated. The other part, however, started whining and asking things like, “Hey, where is the candlelight? The aromatherapy oils? Don’t I get wine with this?”
I had to remind myself it was 9 am.
In retrospect I realize that I had something much more sensual in mind. As the therapist kneaded my upper back she asked if I could feel the ‘crunchy’ sensation. Yes, I could. And, it hurt. She explained what she was doing to release the series of knots my muscles contained. Turns out that stress and writing for hours, too many to count, had caused me to contract my upper back muscles until they formed tight little bundles compacted so nicely that my shoulders were nearly touching my earlobes.
Her strong and tiny
hands worked out many of the kinks and I left the appointment with my
shoulders where they were originally meant to be. When it was over, the experience
had benefitted me much better than my
fantasies of being transported on a palanquin, being fed peeled grapes would have
and I repeated an oft learned lesson that reality and perceived reality can be
two different things.
Truthfully though, I haven’t
yet decided if massage therapy will become a regular part of my lifestyle. I
might incorporate it for the health benefits it provides. If I do I’ll know what
to expect. And I’m pretty sure my shoulders would eventually remember to stay put
instead of creeping skyward. I'm not sure what I'll do.But next time, if there is a next time, even if I’m naked....I’m wearing a crown.
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