My husband and I booked a couples massage this week at Gravity Spa, which is called that because they also have floatation tanks. Those actually sounded good, but I no longer own a bathing suit and didn’t want to float in my underwear or sweats, so they weren’t an option for me. When it comes to dressing for the occasion, wearing a brand-new pair of underpants is about the limit of my ability to plan, and that was all that I really needed for a massage.
Both of us have had massages before, so the process wasn’t new to us. (During one of my previous massages, my left foot went into spasm while the masseuse was working on it. She apologized profusely, but there was really no need. I have some nerve damage in my toes due to a back operation. If that sounds odd, well, it did to me too, but there you have it. I’m just lucky that nothing in between was affected. But I digress.)
We showed up at the spa all ready for our sensuous experience and were conducted into the massage room, which (of course) featured low lighting, soothing decor, and gentle music. It was all a little genteel for me. I prefer my physical pummeling rough and tough. If it doesn’t cause me to moan, whimper, and make sounds that could be mistaken for erotic fulfillment, I’m not being sufficiently rubbed down. A.J., my masseur, obliged. (I had inquired about the various levels of pressure involved and was told that a standard massage was considered a Level One, a Swedish massage a Level Two, and a deep tissue massage a Level Three. That’s what I chose. There’s also something called a hot stone massage, but I didn’t like the sound of that. My skin is tender, even if my muscles aren’t. But I digress again.)
A.J. started in on me with a suitable amount of pressure and pleasantly scented oil. I tried to restrain my cries of pleasure for fear of making the other workers and clients of the spa think that there was something untoward going on.
Suddenly, the pressure diminished. A.J. said that he had to step out for a moment because his right arm was going numb. After a few minutes, Katie, Dan’s masseuse, stepped out to check on him. “I hope he’s not having a heart attack,” I said.
“No,” she said. “That would be his left arm. His right arm could indicate a stroke.” This did not reassure me in the slightest. I thought I had maimed my masseur for life – or perhaps even killed him.
Katie returned and said that A.J. would be unable to continue. We could both leave, I could go into the lobby and wait there for Dan’s massage to be done, or I could stay in the room while Dan’s massage was going on. The warming table and fluffy blanket made up my mind. I burrowed into them, wrapped myself up like a burrito, and stayed to watch. It was interesting. When Katie worked on Dan’s hips, she really braced herself and leaned into it. I guess she had to.
When the massages were over, we were informed that we wouldn’t have to pay for them because our experience was interrupted. (We were also advised that we might not want to leave the spa just then because it was pouring down rain and tornado warnings (or watches, whichever) were being talked about. We chose to leave and drive the mile and a half home. We thought it would be safer, despite the fact that our house was destroyed by a tornado three years ago. But I digress again.)
And that, dear friends, is how I arrived home, looking like a wet dog, with half my back smelling like coconut.
(The dog in the photo is just there for visual interest. No dogs were soaked or massaged in the writing of this post.)
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