My blog turned two yesterday. My very first post was about getting a massage. I went back to the same massage place yesterday, on my blog’s birthday, and got a massage.
I didn’t realize that I missed Rubber Shoe’s birthday until this morning. I thought, given my very first post was about a massage, it would be appropriate to write about my massage from yesterday.
I didn’t worry at all about my boobs this time around. I worried more when I arrived that they would ask me who I booked the appointment with. The names ‘Stephanie’ and ‘Jennifer’ are the same name in my head. Same with ‘Karen’ and ‘Janet’. I have some dyslexia issues, but mostly they revolve around direction. Right and left are foreign concepts to me. Unless we’re talking politics, which we are not because fucking hell, who needs that headache?
Front and back also get mixed up in my head. This confusion has resulted in more than one kitchen fire. If the back burner is on, and you think the front burner is on and then you lay an oven mitt on the back burner, then hilarity will ensue.
Even though my dyslexia is directional, I still choose to blame dyslexia for my inability to distinguish between Jennifer and Stephanie. I was reasonably sure my session was with a Jennifer.
Turns out, I didn’t have to identify my therapist. Which I kind of knew would be the case, but I was about to have a stranger put their hands all over me and I needed something to fret over.
Here’s how not listening to my inner voice made my massage experience far less enjoyable.
I have been way sweatier than normal for a few months now. I very often feel like I have fire ants burrowed under my scalp and that my face is going to melt like that one Nazi’s face did at the end of Raiders Of The Lost Ark.
When I booked my massage, I looked over the choices. I lingered over the aroma therapy choice and then booked a ‘hot stone’ massage.
I knew the aroma therapy was a better choice. I loathe being too warm and ‘hot stone’ should have read ‘fuck no’ to me. If I’m going to be dyslexic and get shit mixed up, then why can’t it at least be useful?
I think the massage would have been a lot better if I didn’t have it on a table that came from the 7th level of hell.
The table was heated. I think the temperature was set between Norman Reedus and Barbeque. I had hot rocks resting on my spine. The therapist had rocks in her hands. Every inch of me was bathed in heat.
I thought I was going to die.
I went inside my head to find my happy place. Oddly enough, my happy place had cobwebby walls, a bean bag chair and a Tiger Beat magazine. I took even breaths and convinced myself that the heat had healing powers and I would feel like a higher being when she finished.
Not only was I on Satan’s table, I decided to upgrade from a 60 minute massage to a 90 minute massage. I had an extra 30 minutes to feel sweat run into my butt crack.
I also dehydrated rather quickly. Only thirty minutes in and my throat clicked when I swallowed. My head was on fire. I was parched and my left knee had a fierce itch.
I guess it could have been worse. I could have had severe intestinal distress as well.
The rubbing part of the massage was great, I mean, the rubbing part was great after the rocks cooled down a little.
I did feel better when she finished, she worked out some aggressive kinks. Getting my shoulder knots pounded out didn’t compare to how good it felt to throw those blankets off when the therapist left the room.
I feel like I need a do over on this massage. I should have listened to my inner voice. I knew the hot stones would make me miserable, so why would I choose hot rocks? Why didn’t I speak up and tell her to turn the heat on the bed down? Why?
I don’t know. Anxiety dries my throat up just as much as being cooked between a heated bed and hot rocks.
I had to struggle for a few minutes before pushing myself off the lava bed. Apparently, pounding out the shoulder knots affected my ability to operate my own legs.
My hair had to look like crazy homeless lady hair and there was no mirror to check it. Then I knocked my clothes off the chair on to the floor. When I gathered my clothes up, I noticed the smell. Holy shit, you guys.
What the fuck is that smell? Holy shit. Is that me? I’ve never smelled anything like that before. Well, maybe in a bus station. Or at the zoo.
I feel good today. Some of the shoulder knots have settled back into place, but I do feel a little better today.
Happy birthday to my blog. They grow up so fast. This is such a cute stage, though. I am sure, before long, my blog will be talking back and rolling her eyes at me.
Oh, and my therapist’s name was Melissa.