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Thoughts from a touch-me-not's first massage

By Jane HaglApril 6, 2017

Thoughts from touch-me-not's first massage
Thoughts from touch-me-not's first massage Pexels.com

“I don’t like to be touched,” I told the receptionist. There a few many tenets of life I highly esteem. My personal space is very high on that list.

“You’re here for a massage?” She looked at me like I was crazy.

“Yes. I’m sore and someone strongly suggested a massage,” I explained.

Air kisses are an annoyance and I am irate for another 2 minutes if the air kiss becomes a cheek kiss. Hugs are reserved for my father after a flight and old ladies who insist.The tightness in my shoulders, neck, and hands was driving me crazy. I was willingly going endure an hour being rubbed on for an hour. A whole hour.

The polite receptionist, Susan, went behind dark Mahogany doors, to retrieve the massage therapist.  Susan came back older massage therapist with a friendly smile.

At least she doesn’t look mean.  We walked into the private room and she told me to get situated on the table. I was already bored and the massage hadn’t even started.

“I get to keep my clothes on, right?”  She rolled her eyes and nodded. The receptionist probably warned her about the weirdo she was going to spend an hour with.

I felt her briefly touch my shoulder and I flinched.

“I barely started,” She exclaimed.

“I don’t like to be touched,” I told her.

“You’re here for a massage.” She informed me as if I had accidentally wandered in a health spa looking for a cheeseburger.

“Yeap.”

Why is she undoing my bun? My hair is not ready to see the world.  I hear my bones. I don’t think they are supposed to make that noise until I need to go see a geriatric orthopedic doctor when my head is adorned with a crown of gray.

She began moving up and down my leg. This just got real personal really quickly.

She was kneading into a knot formed from over 20 years of pent-up anal-retentive stress and I was not enjoying it one bit. I winced just enough times for her move lower into the back.

“This is much more effective if you would relax,” the masseuse said.

“I don’t relax,” I reply.

“You’re going to die young if you don’t learn how to relax,” she warned.

“I’ve accepted that.” Her snort turns into a full laugh.

“How much more time is left?”

“Honey, it’s been 15 minutes.”

I sighed and closed my eyes, hoping the next 45 minutes would pass by quickly.

When the massage ended, she handed me a Smart water and told me to drink it to flush out all the toxins that were know floating around in my body. The hour of “pampering” spread the soreness to every nook and cranny of my body.

In hindsight, a 30-minute session would have been a better idea.