You probably are unaware, but I spend a good portion of my time lunging and squatting all around my home. I have weights and exercise bands for added resistance. I also have an actual squat machine that I’m presently failing to use. I declare war weekly (sometimes daily) on my backside. To be completely forthcoming, I am not much of my fan of what’s below my waist to just above my knees. I invest a lot of time thinking deeply about how to shape this mess into something I can live with peacefully and happily ever after. Unfortunately, this is not a love story.
To become comfortable with a complete stranger targeting my areas of concern with only a thin sheet in between me and the hands of judgement, I have always felt a bit apprehensive. I have had the urge to ease into this relationship by starting with coffee first. I believe a certain familiarity needs to exist before I strip down to my G-strings and lay face down & ass up on a massage table. Starting any relationship this way makes me anxious. I believe the introduction needs to be a bit more comprehensive than just a pre-massage questionnaire. I feel there might be some warnings that must be spoken by me directly to you prior to taking off my clothes, because let’s be honest… the sheet really doesn’t hid much. Perhaps I want to offer you a pre-massage apology. However, this might be more of a confession.
It took years for me to work up to the courage to get to the door of a spa and lying on tables like yours. Nevertheless, once I ripped off the Band-Aid I was hooked. I am somewhat athletic and I inflicted much self-harm by running and these workouts take their toll. At one time I had a massage therapist I went to on a consistent basis, but I fell out of practice and I learned he recently moved on to another adventure.
Typically, when I meet a new therapist, she or he suggests three levels of pressure: 1. light, 2. medium, and 3. deep. Although we did agree on deep you failed to mention you were applying a fourth level of pressure, which I have named HOLY SHIT! As I previously mentioned, I am often dissatisfied with my posterior, but I only can conclude by the way you attacked it with such aggression that you must have been angry with it too. I haven't looked, but I just might have finger bruises back there.
As you paced around the massage table, I laid there anxiously with my eyes closed waiting for you to pounce and unleash the rage. When you would find a knot or an area of concern, you would dig at it how a blind hungry dog digs for a buried bone. At one point, my body wanted to break out in the cold sweats, but I willed myself from doing so out of fear that you might break out in grunts in some sort of primal song of conquer.
To be candid, I am afraid to look at the aftermath of your massage rage. However, I can't decide if I in fact did just participate in a massage or a beating, and I can't decide if I want to complain or ask for you again next week. For some reason, I think your massages might build my character and/or be a way to work off all the bad karma I have accumulated over the years. Dear Massage Therapist, please understand when or if I see you again we will agree upon a safe word.
About the Creator
The stories you will read are quirky outbursts highlighting everyday activities from a perspective that mindfully rails against them, creating perfectly imbalanced masterpieces. Brought to you from Portland, OR. I hope you enjoy!