Image via Seinfeld/NBC.
My neck is cactus.
I’m not sure if it’s because I sit on a chair in front of a computer every day, or because I’m getting older. Whatever the reason, I’d rather let someone t-bone my car at an intersection than look over my left shoulder.
But I have to be immobile before I’ll book a massage. Because as tortured as my neck feels, a visit to the masseuse is even worse. It doesn’t matter how much neroli and jasmine they’re burning on the bench or how much whale music is piped into the room, relaxation is out of the question.
If my mind was on speaker while I get a massage, this is what you’d hear:
Masseuse: “I’ll leave you alone while you take your clothes off.”
Does that mean EVERYTHING? Should I leave my knickers on? My bra? Will she cover my butt with a towel? Do I lie down on my front or my back – or wait for instructions when she comes back in?
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Oh shit, I really should have taken care of the mini jungle situation I’ve got going on with my bikini line.
Here she comes. I should really cover myself with a towel but I can’t reach it. Shit. Nope, leave it. Act cool.
I really want to tell her to be quiet, I don’t want conversation, I don’t want to tell her about my week, I just…want... silence.
OWW, holy shit, why is she pressing onto my left shoulder so hard?
Why didn’t I tell her my neck has me in a near-catatonic state? Why did I pretend I had no real problems? Oh, she’s a professional, I’m sure she’ll be able to feel where I’m tight with her professional masseuse thumbs.
Is she repulsed by the cellulite on my arse? Clearly, she is, she just covered it with towel. I don’t blame her.
I wish she’d press just a bit harder.
Oww, I wish she’d lay off my shoulder blade. (Post continues after gallery.)
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Why did I just tell her that it fine when she asked if the pressure was “too much”?
I think I’m going to cry.
I think I’m going to vomit.
Dammit I forgot to book the car into the mechanic.
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I’m going to stop thinking.
Why can’t I can’t stop thinking?
How do I meditate?
That’s a bit weird, she’s putting her hand strangely close to my inner thigh.
Oh, she smells REALLY good.
Is it weird that as a straight woman, I find this massage strangely arousing?
Go to your happy place, go to your happy place.
Fuck, why can’t I find my happy place?
I’m going to walk out of here more pent up than when I walked in.
Oh god, time to turn over. How come I can never do this gracefully?
Pretty sure she saw my boob.
Wow, she’s massaging REALLY close to my boob.
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Wait, what are those. Oh, hot stones, that’s right, I asked to end the massage with hot stones.
HOLY FUCK THEY ARE HOT!!
Yes, they’re too hot lady, did you collect these rocks from the SUN?!
Okay, okay, this feels a bit better now she’s moving them around a bit.
Ummm, why is she moving them towards my side-boob?
Jesus Christ, I’ve forgotten to book the cat in for his injections again.
Happy place, come on Bern, you’ve got at best, five minutes left now. Relax.
Huuuuummmm. That’s my best Buddha, Zen whatever the hell they call that relaxation chant, in my head.
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Now I’m just stressed because it’s all over and I’ve blown $90.
Wait, WHAT is this? OH GOD, this scalp massage feels like a unicorn draped in rainbows is gently clawing my head right now and I’ve never felt anything better in my whole life. Why don’t I just ask for a 90 minute scalp massage? Would that be weird? No, that would be weird.
The Masseuse: “That’s it Bernadette, I’ll let you get dressed and I’ll be out front.”
Me: “WHAT? I just started to feel good.” I don’t say it that obviously.
Masseuse: “How was it, do you feel relaxed?”
Me: “Oh yes, I feel great”
Masseuse: “Can I book you in for another?”
Me: “Yep, same time next Tuesday.”
(What is wrong with me?)
Can you relate? Did I miss any steps?
This article was originally published on Debrief Daily. Read the original article here.
