The Therapeutic Massage

I have seen massages on television, usually in comedy skits. The masseuses always look like sumo wrestlers and throw a towel across your bottom while they knead you like a hunk of dough and then beat you to a pulp with karate chops.

No, I didn’t think I needed that.

I was a bit afraid to have a massage. I wasn’t sure what they would do to me. I didn’t want a fat wrester twisting me into a pretzel. Besides, it seemed silly to pay money to have someone to rub my back.

Still, I did have this stiff neck and shoulder pain that nothing seemed to help, regardless of how much BenGay I slathered on or how long I slept on a heating pad. I couldn’t help but think how heavenly it would feel to have someone who knew what they were doing work on those neck muscles.

Tension and stress are epidemic these days and I read that massages are terrific for arthritic pain too. I almost had myself talked into it when, as luck would have it, the beauty shop where I was going began to provide massage services.

Still, I was hesitant.

Then, one day when I was complaining about my neck, my honey said, “If you are hurting, why don’t you get a professional massage?”

Ha, if he thinks it is so great, why doesn’t he get one?

Since he brought up the subject, I decided to get him a gift certificate. Let him become the Pillsbury Doughboy.

I think he was a bit nervous about it too. He insisted on going at the same time I went to get my hair done. But afterwards, he raved about how good it felt.

I was envious. Wait a minute; I’m the one that needs a massage! Why is he the one going? I hoped he would take the hint and get me a gift certificate too. He didn’t. Men do not take hints. You have to spell it out.

“If anyone wants to know what I want for my birthday,” I said, “I would like a gift certificate for a m-a-s-s-a-g-e.”

Once I had a gift certificate in my sweaty palms, however, I was again afraid. I couldn’t very well ask him to go with me. Finally, I took a deep breath and called and made the appointment.

The lady massage therapist took my medical history and explained all about what she would do.

The room was dimly lit, and had some of that weird relaxation music playing as well as the sound of trickling water coming from somewhere. She used aromatic oil that smelled wonderful.

The white table was just a comfortable as I thought it would be. I was covered with a nice soft sheet for the entire time to protect my modesty. She massaged my scalp, my shoulders, and back. It was even more relaxing than I had imagined.

I suffer from back pain and could not stand the deep massage like she used for my shoulders. So, she simply worked on pressure points to help relieve the pain, and then massaged the aching muscles in my legs.

I didn’t get kneaded like a wad of dough or spun like a pizza crust. No body slams or judo punches. It was perfectly safe and a soothing relief for sore muscles and relief of tension.

I left with a bottle of water to help rid my system of toxins and prevent soreness. It was wonderful.

By the way, she didn’t resemble a sumo wrestler at all — not even a little bit.

Copyright 2007 Sheila Moss

About Sheila Moss

My stories are about daily life and the funny things that happen to all of us. My columns have been published in numerous newspapers, magazines, anthologies, and websites.
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