My masseuse had the strength of a hard-working farmer.
As she attempted to rub off my skin, rearrange my organs, and stab her elbow into muscles I never knew I had, I wondered when it was that I’d last had such a good massage that my brain now insists a neck and back massage is exactly what I need.
I always feel vulnerable going for a massage.
You’re left alone for an unspecified amount of time to shove everything into a basket, disrobe, vault onto a ridiculously thin table, and act casual until the tiny woman with the power enters.
I’ve learned to use this time wisely.
Position your face before committing to the hole in the table. There is nothing graceful about readjusting your head with tissue paper stuck to your face and your arms rendered useless, penguin-style.
You must place your forehead and chin in the exact spot: otherwise, you’ll rejoin the outside world with a horrid toilet-seat ring around your face.
Ignore the dribble stains on the carpet from the previous customer. You will be contributing shortly.
When paying the strong, tiny lady, be overly enthusiastic.
The pain will dissipate soon, and you’ll be able to move more freely than you have in weeks.
Since she has pushed all remaining alcohol and sugar around your body, drink lots of water and relax. You’ve paid for it.
Tomorrow, look after your body. Stretch. Move. Sit up straight.
Otherwise, you’ll be paying for it again in a few weeks — literally.