I don’t often get massages. It is a rare treat. I once got one in Hawaii. It was a Lomi Lomi massage. The woman straddled me on the table. I nearly had a heart attack. I thought she was going to murder me.
Last weekend I was fortunate enough to get another. It was 80 minutes long – also unusual for me. I’m more used to the hour-long.
This quiet, sort of timid masseur greeted me and escorted me to the room. It was there he asked me a plethora of questions before I was instructed to “disrobe to my level of comfort” and crawl on the table.
I discovered why this place encouraged an 80 minuter. It is because he took 20 minutes asking me questions.
“Do you have any medical issues I should be aware of?”
“Is the music choice OK?”
“Is the volume level to your liking?”
“Is the sun bothering your eyes?”
“Do you want the fan on?”
“Do you want me to open the blind?”
“Is the head of the table tilted to your liking? Is the foot of the table tilted to your liking?”
DUDE! My liking is for you to rub my back like you’re doing laundry on the prairie! STOP ASKING QUESTIONS AND GET TO WORK!
“One more question: Do you want lilac oil, orange blossom oil or oregano oil?”
“Well I don’t want to smell like a pizza, and I don’t want to fall asleep. I’ll take the orange.”
Maybe it was cilantro – I can’t remember. But it was something I’ve cooked with before.
So this tiny man started my massage with me on my back. He took his little fingers and left his prints all across my forehead. It was like when my kids made fingerprint Easter Bunnies in preschool.
He then began rubbing my ear lobes. He spent a seemingly inordinate amount of time messing with my ears. At one point he gently grabbed the inner cartilage and held down toward the bed. I tried to raise my head. I could not. He had me pinned. It was an incredibly weird sensation – a 175 pound man being held down by his ears.
It wasn’t long after that I discovered this librarian looking fella could have snapped my head off like a ninja. Some guys don’t like a rub down from another man. This is strictly business for me. If the hands are strong, I don’t care if Jack the Ripper is in charge.
He dug down on the knots in my back with force. He put my stress to shame. He belittled my tight little muscles.
He asked me if I wanted my stomach massaged. I asked if it was included. I didn’t want to pay extra. He assured me it was. Then by all means. My stomach works really hard. It deserves some attention.
I was a little concerned that the lint in my bellybutton would mix with the orange oil and create some interesting yarn – but what the heck, it came with the package.
When I turned onto my stomach half way through the glorious experience, he hung a strap under my nose.
“This is frankincense,” he explained.
Me and the baby Jesus.
“I prefer myrrh. JK!”
I don’t think he heard me.
Thankfully he left the sheet on my behind when he went to work on my gluts. He balled up his fist and beat my butt like a toddler to a table when didn’t get what he wanted for dinner.
I’d seen that in the movies, but I hadn’t been spanked since I was a kid. Sort of surprised me.
Perhaps the most interesting part of the whole experience was when he hit the small gong at the end of my session. Doing. He warned me that when I heard that sound, our time together was complete.
He thanked me for my patronage and swiftly left the room. Another ninja move.
I sat up on my bruised tail and sipped my raspberry water.
What a lovely day it has been, I thought.