I love a good massage, or at least I think I do. What’s not to love?
A whole blissful hour (or ninety minutes if I’m feeling crazy decadent) all to myself.
Just me. Nobody else to think about. Nobody’s nose or other body parts to wipe, and that’s just Mr S.H.I.T.
Nobody expecting instant answers to vital questions such as, ‘Do you think Moana has nits?’ Nobody expecting me to know where everything is (I do, however, secretly pride myself on this skill of mine acquired since motherhood).
Just me on my own, being pampered.
And I love to be touched – Mr S.H.I.T. might beg to differ, but I do. Not in a pervy way, but in the way it feels nice when my daughter does my hair, or plays doctors on me. It tickles when she puts the blood pressure monitor on.
But I’m beginning to question whether I really do love massages, or if, in fact, this de-stressing treat actually stresses me out.
So here’s why:
The rush to get my kit off
We inevitably walk into a dimmed room smelling of lavender and I’m told to get myself settled.
The masseuse (or masseur which really stressed me out one time) will say, ‘I’ll be back in a few moments.’ But what exactly does a few moments mean?
Do I have five minutes or exactly thirty seconds? I don’t want to be caught short, nudey bum in the air, so I panic change.
Quick, quick, quick, she (or he) could walk in at any moment. Obviously a far bigger stress if it’s a he.
It’s carnage in the room as I rip my clothes off, put the paper knicks on the wrong way, try to yank my wedding ring off, and all in under three seconds.
Of course, I’m then left lying on the bed for a further ten minutes, trying to get my heart rate down.
The hole in the bed
Now this is just never relaxing. That hole is uncomfortable no matter how many times I adjust my position.
My face is squished down into a non face-friendly space, and I’m left with ring marks on my cheeks.
Trying to enjoy every minute and relax
Once I’ve accepted the face hole discomfort, it’s time to relax. I only have fifty minutes left now having wasted ten minutes on trying to relieve the squashed face thing.
Must relax, live in the moment, switch off, be mindful.
But what’s this, hundreds of random thoughts are flying into the motherhead. No, no, no, this cannot be.
This is not the time to be worrying whether Mr S will remember to get the kids to put the tops back on the new hugely expensive Smiggle pens, or will he, in fact, still be horizontally watching football while the kids are attached to iPaddy all afternoon? Blood pressure is now off the scale.
And then there are the downright trivial ones that I can’t control, along the lines of whatever happened to Mr Claypole from Rentaghost or has Donald Trump installed a spray tan booth in the White House and is anyone else allowed to use it?
Not important right now. RELAX.
Just as I’m trying to banish all thoughts from the crazy head, I hear those dreaded words gently whispered, ‘It’s time to flip over.’
The stress levels fire up as I attempt to do this with an element of decorum, while clutching the tiny towel to avoid any boob reveal.
It’s impossible. And as I clumsily heave myself onto my back (there’s no light pancake-like ‘flipping’ here), the heart rate is sky high again.
Worried about the masseuse / masseur
Then I find myself concerning over the wellbeing of the masseuse. Poor thing, what a horrible job having to massage my body all over. And so boring. Must actually be quite exhausting, especially on her poor achey fingers.
Wonder what made her go into this line of work? Is she feeling job satisfaction or clock watching all the way?
Then they cut it short
And then before I know it, just as I’m finally switching off, I feel the gentle press down on both feet to tell me it’s all over and would I like a glass of water?
I’m obviously meant to be in a comatosed state of sublime relaxation. But I agitatedly grab my watch from the robe pocket, because no way was that the full hour.
And lo and behold, just as I thought, there’s still exactly three minutes till the hour is up, and all that precious time was wasted at the beginning filling in the annoying form to confirm that I don’t have high blood pressure.
Though I do now. I rest my case.
I have amazingly made it into the finals of the Brilliance in Blogging Awards 2017 under the Fresh Voice category.
I would be so grateful for your vote if you like what you read at S.H.I.T.
You can do it here, and I will be forever indebted to you!