At the beginning of February an amazing client, and friend, gave me a Spa Gift Certificate.
Over the years, I had given massage certificates as gifts, as well. Some of the crazy fools never used them. Now don’t groan, you know who you are. I would not make that mistake.
I was ecstatic. I'd always wanted a professional massage. I know they are not for everyone, but baby, if you mentioned that a
Yeti was coming to town to give me a massage, I’d be there before you could add, “... and he's bringing
the Loch Ness Monster.”
I’ve dreamt of this for years but could never bring myself to book one. It felt too decadent; too self-indulgent. Now, with the certificate in hand, I had an excuse.
First, I needed a partner in crime, someone who was experienced at this and could guide a neophyte, like me, through the spa routine. I didn’t want to appear a total moron. I’m not vain about my looks, but I do care about looking as if I don’t know something.
I recruited my friend, Martine. She’s cosmopolitan. Looks like she knows what she’s doing and can navigate around spas with ease. Plus she knows what an idiot I can be. I could ask her stupid questions and not feel embarrassed.
Picking a time became a problem early on. Between my chemo, weakness and general unreliability, I could not commit to a date. Once I got on the light chemo, I realized this was my opportunity, before my surgery.
Martine made the appointment at a well-known day spa. They had an opening. She booked a 75 minute massage for the both of us. I was thrilled. An entire hour, with a bonus 15 minutes! The only hitch was that my masseuse would be male. I had hoped to start with a female, since I felt a bit bashful; surprising, I know, in light of the fact that I now regularly paraded topless at many doctor’s offices, without any shame.
We arrived separately. Outside, the rain came down with a violence that hinted at someone ’s vain attempt at washing New York down. Inside, the staff went about their business, among the muted, scented greys and chrome, unaware of the deluge outside. The new age music piped softly trough the hidden speakers. Everybody whispered. I don’t do well in venues that encourage whispering.
I walked up to the front desk.
“Checking in?” The attendant asked. How quaint, like a hotel.
“Yes. I’m here for a massage. I have a reservation.”
“What type of massage will you be having today?” She asked.
“What types are available?”
She listed the options. I decided to start with the basic. “Swedish, please.”
She handed me a chart. It looked an awful lot like the charts you get at doctor’s offices.
Diseases? Allergies? Medications? Why, this was the doctor’s questionnaire! I checked off the necessary boxes, realizing that, on paper, I was not the ideal massage client. I wondered if I’d scare the masseuse off. I’d have to mention that he was to avoid the port area, and, because of the tube running up the left side of my neck, he’d have to stay away from the left side of my neck and shoulder. Oh. He’ll be delighted. I was sure.
Martine arrived and after we checked in, the girl gave us a tour of the facility. Subdued and tranquil, in a corporate way. She pointed out the TRANQUILITY ROOM. A circular room, with lights so dim, you could pass yourself off as
Michael Jackson,
Mahalia Jackson,
Samuel L. Jackson or anyone other Jackson in your whimsy. The scent of flowers wafted through the air, enhancing the mood. Circular seating adjoined the walls. Various clients, sat whispering, in their robes.
“This is where you can relax, read something . . .” I noticed magazines arranged discreetly around the area. How anyone could read in this light, was beyond me. She then lead us to the locker room. There she gave us soft, white robes and plastic slippers.
“You can change, then go through there and wait to be called.” She pointed to a curtain across the hall. “Afterward, you can shower. We have everything you need here: towels, soap, brushes, creams... Whatever you need." I needed a better body. Did she have that? "Through there is the sauna.” She pointed toward the showers. I looked over. A naked woman laid prone on the other side of the glass door. I guess it was a sauna for one.
Once in our bathrobe and slippers, we walked to the tranquillity room. A moment after we got there, Martine was greeted by her masseuse. She looked back at me. “Bye, see you later!” and she disppeared giddily through the curtain. She was ready. I was nervous.
I few minutes later, Don, my masseuse, appeared. A coffee complected, young man with dreadlocks.
“Hello . . . Annelise?” He has a soft, modulated, accent-less voice. Appropriate for this place.
“That’s me!” I said, a bit too brightly and loud. Fortunately, the heavy carpeting didn't allow my voice to echo.
“Just follow me.” I did, right into a room lit by candlelight. A massage table sat at the center. I was disconcerted by how dark and romantic the room looked. Why that would bother me, I haven’t a clue.
Don handed me a towel and asked that I remove the robe, lay on the table and cover myself with the towel. He turned to leave.
“Wait!” He turned back.
“Yes?”
“I need to go over certain areas that you have to stay away from.” I said.
“Sure.”
I listed the caveats. He nodded, smiling and said, “No problem. We’ll start on your back first. Just lay face down.”
He then left. I took off the robe and got on the table, clumsily turning myself over and hoping the legs on the damn table would hold. I’m no lightweight, and ever since getting cancer, I’ve gained – yes, I said, gained – 25 lbs. Can you imagine? Where is the benefit of cancer? Everyone I know that got cancer, lost weight. No. Not me. Go figure.
The table wobbled wildly as I maneuvered above it. Please don’t let him come in while in the midst of my gyrating, I prayed. Finally I settled on the table, but then had to find a way to lay the towel over my back without toppling off. I laid it haphazardly and hoped for the best. It barely covered anything. Don returned.
“Okay. You ready?” I felt like a virgin, when I whispered, “Yes.”
He arranged the towel on my back, properly, then began to massage over the towel. It felt great.
A few minutes later, he walked over to the side table. A small bottle sat among the candles. He coated his hands with oil.
He began by massaging my calves. As great as that felt, I realized, a bit sadly, that my decreased sensitivity was affecting my level of enjoyment.
Ever since I began my treatment, I’ve lost a great deal of feeling and sensitivity all over my body. The fingers in my left hand have very little feeling left. This came in handy when I slammed the security door over my finger a month ago. The finger was cut and swelled immediately, but I was grateful for the numbness, because I felt very little pain. Now I was not so grateful. The massage felt good, but I knew in past years it would have felt great.
The silence and pleasant scent, made me begin to praddle. Silence, a man stroking my back, candlelight ... Well, you get the drift. Nerves became the name of the game. And, in my current state, as I wrote about in the “Train of Thought” entry, the praddle was non-stop, wildly all over the place, and exhausting. I felt bad for Don, but I could not stop myself. Halfway through the session, Don turned the music on, and got the hint. I immediately turned my chatter off. That only lasted a few minutes. I felt the words desperately trying to make the way out, and although I tried to refrain -- mightily, I might add -- they began to flow again. Poor guy. I think he was relieved when the session ended.
I felt good. I was sure the next time I’d do better.
Martine waited for me in the Tranquillity room. I sat next to her.
"Well? How was it?" She asked.
"Great." I said.
“I could hear you talking the entire time.” She said.
“No! Through the walls?”
“Yup.” How embarrassing.
We chatted some more then forgot to whisper.
From across the room, a middle aged white man, very corporate looking, spoke up:
“I’ve been wondering if I should say something . . . but . . . I feel I must. This is a room for silence. Calm. The spa experience is tranquil, about relaxation . . .”
“You’re right. We apologize.” I piped up, before Martine could give him a piece of her mind.
“. . . This place is for relaxing. I come here to rest . . .” He continued, unabated.
Martine said something to him I didn’t hear. Not as placating as me, I was sure. I apologized again. Finally he stopped pontificating.
Now we all sat in silence -- awkwardly. Martine got up, got some dried fruit from one of the side tables and sat at the other end of the room. I knew why she did it. If she had remained next to me, we would have started talking again. Now I sat staring out, feeling like a chastized five-year old, wondering what to do with myself, since it was too dim to read.
Five minutes went by, then the guy’s masseuse came out to get him.
What does he say? “Uh. I need to use the bathroom first.” All that time sitting there like a stone, taking the time to lecture us, he could have used the bathroom! Tsk. Tsk.
Overall, it was a great experience. The next time I will be prepared and duct tape my mouth.
©2006 Annelise Pichardo
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