Massage musings


I had a massage on the weekend. I love being touched in hard to reach places. I’m such a Taurus lush.

My masseuse was Eastern European. Tiny framed and all dressed in white. I felt that I disappointed her as I arrived at the clinic.

I wanted to say, ‘Yes, I’m fat, I’m sorry.’ Instead I went into the room smelling of rose geranium and hotter than a delivery room, and indicated on a chart of a body of what to focus on and avoid.

‘No glutes, more head’, I said, wondering if that phrase was on a bumper sticker in Bali. If not, it should be.

She offered to head outside and wait while I undressed. Not wanting to waste rubbing time, I insisted I was fine and was under the lilac towel in a New York minute.

After choosing a grapefruit oil, that apparently stimulates hair growth (my chin hair can’t wait), I waited for the agonising ecstasy to start.

I am a peach. In saying that, I mean, I bruise easier than a Princess in a pea filled water-bed. She started, doing that weird thing all masseuses’s do, where they sort of ground you and push you into the table. And then we were off. Legs first.

My legs are my worst feature. Sausage meat in gas cylinder’s. She started her work, and my sausage rolls flipped at her touch.

I could feel myself judging myself through her eyes as she worked away. I was so mean to myself.

Then the next leg, and I stopped being a bitch to myself for a moment and tried to relax. I never know what to think about when I have a massage. Should I meditate? Should I plan great and magnificent goals? Should I look back at every bad thing I’ve ever done and plan a letter writing campaign to ask for forgiveness or maybe I should start a crowdsourcing fund for my one woman, Puppetry of the Wizard Sleeve show, that’s been rumbling in my nether regions?

Nope. I have an elbow in my ass. Through the towel, mind you, but still, I have a sharp-pointed body part pushing into my butt and it didn’t even try to buy me dinner first.

Next is the back.

It’s intense but nice and I relax a little more, still flipping through the subjects I might think about, as I dribble through the hole in the table. How did Amal snag Clooney? Should I get takeaway tonight? I need to poison the weeds at the front of the house. 

She’s working on my bingo wings, and I can feel my apology welling in my throat again.

‘I’m sorry I’m fat.’

But I don’t say it. I just roll over.

I let her work on my face and head, where I experience a bliss close to Ricky Martin’s smile. She pushes her hand onto my forehead and I feel my head fall back into the pillow. After the release of her hand, all the tension finally goes.  The critic is silenced. I stop thinking. Instead I let the tingles on my crown chakra run down my body.

‘Kate, your time is up,’ she whispers above me.

And so it goes.

Next time, I’ll say, ‘Head first please.’ (Surely, that’s on a Balinese bumper sticker?)

And no more bad self talk.






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