Now what kind of blogger would I be if I kept the really funny, mildly embarrassing stuff from you?
For Valentine’s Day HP got me a gift certificate to get a one hour massage. A massage! That I didn’t have to pay for! It was a pretty damn good Valentine’s gift. I made my appointment for Saturday and trekked out in the rain for a morning of relaxation under the hands of a total stranger.
Now I wouldn’t say that I’m a massage expert or anything. I’ve only had a handful of professional massages in my life but they’ve all been pretty similar in set up and execution: Masseuse shows you room, leaves room so you can undress, you undress and get under sheet, get massaged.
Right? Have you had other experiences? Perhaps like the one I had on Saturday? It went like this:
The masseuse showed me the room. It was a really small room. I’m not being judgmental, it was just smaller than any other room in which I’ve been massaged. She indicated a shelf where I would put my clothes and then said that the robes were on the back of the door and she’d be back shortly.
It didn’t occur to me until I was undressed but – robe? What for? And then I looked at the massage table and saw that there was no top sheet. Soooo…. ?? I didn’t know what to make of it.
I looked on the back of the door and saw a couple of towels and then a robe. Ish. Sort of. It was actually a hospital gown. But, um, ok. So I put it on just as I heard her light knock at the door, checking to see if I was ready for her.
Leaning my head out the door while hiding my body behind it I asked her, “uh, is this right? Does the, um, flap go on the back?”
I’m pretty sure she wanted to bust out laughing when she said, “Oh! That is a gown for Colonics.”
I defended myself with, “Oh, well I was confused. I’m not used to a robe I’m used to a sheet on the table, and there’s no sheet so…”
“Oh a sheet! Yes, we can do that!” She laid a sheet over the table and I awkwardly positioned my naked self under it.
All the awkward melted away (for now) (foreshadowing!) as she massaged my head, neck, back and legs. Aaahhhhh maaasssaaaaaage. It was a good massage, similar to any other massage I’ve gotten before.
When it was time to flip she quietly – so as to not disrupt the earth sounds in the CD player or waft the incense – told me about the lotions she was using. This one has a light exfoliant, and this one is firming. It took a nanosecond for me to envision my thighs in her hands and I feebly apologized, “I’m sorry you have to touch my cellulite.”
She – quietly again – giggled and assured me that I have very little cellulite (Oh I bet you say that to all the girls!)
“No, you have very, very little! Whatever’s in your head, it’s not like that in reality. But I use this firming cream and you won’t see it at all, it’s lifting and tightening, I use it on your breasts as well.”
I’ll admit that I kinda lost my zen at that point. My breasts? She’ll use it on my breasts? Is that what she said? Or did she say “You can use it on your breasts”?
She went on to massage my feet, my quads, my arms. And then down came the sheet and she massaged my stomach (!!) and, wouldn’t you know it, that girl stood above me and made large swooping motions, and massaged my boobs.
I guess she wasn’t so much massaging them as lifting them. She never touched my nipple or areola at all, just the breast tissue. But still. Imagine laying on your back with someone standing by your head and then taking the palms of their hands and just lifting your boobs up.
Over and over again.
In my younger years I would have been terribly embarrassed, uncomfortable, and totally freaked out. I would have died when I accidentally put on a Colonics robe, or shriveled when she giggled at me, and I would have just laid there in fear when she pulled down the sheet. But, you know what? There’s no way I could have known what the robe was for, or what her process is, and she certainly didn’t touch me inappropriately (albeit, a bit oddly). All I could think about while I relaxed and enjoyed the rest of my rub down (post boob), was “Damn this is good blog fodder.”