A Day at the Spa

8/4/2004

The Massage

“How long do you think before it ..,” I stopped then searched for the word. “Goes away,” I finally concluded, a bit lamely.

The masseuse who’d earlier given me a smashing massage and amazingly caused all the aches and pains to temporarily leave my chubby, middle-aged body, shrugged. “Maybe never.”

Actually the vague aches and pains that had been so recently and refreshingly banished from my body returned all too shortly, answering my query to the masseuse as to when this pain free existence would disappear. Only I didn’t know that at the time.

Fortunately the masseuse was my niece, allowing for a comfort and curiosity that might not have been possible had I used a birthday gift certificate for a day at the spa with a total stranger as my masseuse. As it was I was still quite apprehensive about it all. The gift regimen would include something called a “stone massage” and a foot treatment.

Of course I’m prejudiced, but my niece turned out to be quite expert at her job and very professional about it. She answered all my questions easily and confidently.

“Strip down to your comfort level, put on this sheet and lay belly down on this table,” she dictated after I entered the massage room. The space was decorated like one would expect of such a locale, with soothing bows to peace and serenity. The walls were painted a vibrant, almost psychedelic, purple. The massage table was a standard affair, a stainless steel gurney with a steel shelf appendage that had a hole into which the massage recipient was to place his or her face.

My niece left the room, promising to return in two minutes. I had dressed purposefully casual and I was able to disrobe quickly down to my underwear and position myself on the massage table as instructed. My niece returned and began preparations for the massage. She was very solicitous of my comfort, assuring me that she would stop any action that was causing me even a grimace of pain. I’d been warned to empty my bladder before the massage began and was assured that it would need emptying again after the rubdown.

I heard the sounds of lotions squirting, cloths being snapped, stones hitting stones. “So what’s so great about this so-called ‘stone-massage’ as opposed to your more ordinary massage?”

My niece explained that muscles sometimes get “knots” and by placing a heated stone on a knot then gently knocking that stone with another stone, the knots are flattened quickly and comfortably. I considered the concept of muscle knots and the notion that they should be flattened. “See, I’ve found a knot here,” she said, pushing down on a spot on my back. I’d never argue that there were knots in my muscle fiber. There were times that my body felt like it was a veritable freeway of twisted fibers and aching bones. Been like that ever since I turned fifty but maybe it’s just me.

Terry placed a warm stone on my back knot, warning me to tell her if it was too hot. It felt wonderful. She then banged the warm stone with another stone but I don’t know what happened, maybe the knot got flattened. I only know that warm stone on my back was probably the sweetest feeling my body had in the prior three weeks not counting marital pleasures. Well, maybe counting them too.

My nepotistic masseuse proceeded to administer a massage over my entire back, using the lotion to avoid skin friction and slight, expertly applied, pressure to pull and pound those aching muscle fibers. When she began to push down on my lower back I fairly groaned with the pleasure. At first there was a dull pain that responded to her digital ministrations by completely disappearing. For the first time since I could remember, my entire back was pain free.

“Do you ever have any problems with, um, …,” I tried to ask my niece, delicately, about the unspoken reputation of the massage business. “Guys expecting sex?” my no-nonsense niece prodded.

She continued to rub my back and I knew she was formulating her response. “Sometimes,” she finally said. “A lot depends on the location of the massage parlor,” she explained. “As you can see, this is a day spa and we administer many services from hair, nails, massages, foot treatments, we do it all here.”

Which was true enough and was the first thing I noticed. My niece told me that day spas like this one were springing up everywhere. “A day at the spa makes a nice gift,” my niece told me, a gift I certainly was enjoying.

“Sometimes,” she said cautiously, “we can tell if there’s a problem,” my niece continued and through a series of head-pointing and gestures I concluded that the masseuses are trained to note male customers that are very obviously physically aroused. “We don’t make a big deal about it, just leave the room on some pretense. When we come back the problem usually has gone away. If it hasn’t we diplomatically cut the massage short.”

I nodded understanding and was impressed by her professionalism and training. Not to mention the pleasure she was bringing to my tight calf muscles and weary feet with the movement and perfect pressure of her palms.

The entire massage lasted an hour and by my estimate I was pain free for almost 24 hours. Circumstances the weekend following the massage had me sleeping on some sort of Chinese couch that wasn’t unlike nestling down on top of two railway tracks. We won’t go there but the mention comes because the aches and pains returned, gradually, but dull and persistent nonetheless. Whether this was because of the Chinese couch or just how it is, I don’t know.

I’ll do it again and would recommend a massage from a well-trained professional to anyone with stress in their lives. Which would be everyone perhaps and that’s the point.

It does make one heck of a gift.