Masochistic Massage

Mmmmmm, a massage.

A respite.

Relaxing.

Don’t they feel S O.G O O D?

I had a massage last night. I thought to myself, “Brie, you’re a trooper. You’ve had a tough month, and dangit, you deserve some ‘lovin. You’re tense and stressed and what better way to get out all the anxiety than a nice, relaxing, massage?”

So I called and booked one for the next hour.

I went in. I talked with my masseuse, and told him that I liked deep tissue massages. Why on earth would I pay muchos dolares for a light massage, which is akin to slippery butterfly wings drumming on your back? Nah, I wanted my money’s worth. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to get the knots out, feel the kinks straighten out. Yes, yes, I like it deep.

So he began. It was nice at first. Pleasant. He did a once over on my back, and Ed, he said, “Woah. How are you even surviving with this kind of back? You are so tense; I cannot find one muscle that isn’t in a knot.” And I kind of mumbled, “Yeah, it’s been a bad month.” “I’ll say,” he exclaims, then says, “Okay. I’m going to give you a massage that I think is the most therapeutic for you. It won’t be the most comfortable massage, but it’ll help you the most.” I readily agreed. I've had deep tissues massages before. I love them. But I had no idea what I was getting myself into, and hey, I really did want some back relief.

The first time his elbow dug into some tender oh so tender muscle near my shoulder blade, I gasped.

BREATHE, BRIE, JUST BREATHE. Inoutinoutinoutinout.

...Whew. I felt my muscle move a bit, and voila, the pressure eased.

I can handle this. I’m strong. I used to starve myself for days and days. I have will-power.

Again, the pain, the white-hot pain. I thought to myself, what would M (my T) tell me to do? WWMD, right?
VISUALISATION! Yes, that’s it! She’d want me to visualize I was somewhere else, somewhere comfortable and happy.

I’M ON A BEACH I’M ON A BEACH I’M ON A BEACH I’M ON A BEACH aaaah I love it I love it I love it I...love...it?? And then I started thinking, this doesn’t really hurt, does it? This is Brandon giving me a massage, and he sucks at them, and this doesn’t really hurt, I’m just making this up I’M ON A BEACH I’M ON A BEACH I’M ON A BEACH I’M ON A BEACH!!!!!!

“Wow,” Mr. Masseuse says. “I’m impressed you can handle this, you’re such a skinny thing. I weigh 250 pounds, and I’m putting all my weight into this. But MAN, I just can’t believe how many knots you have. How on earth did you even do this to yourself?”

“I guess I just carry my stress in my back,” I say weakly, panting.

“Yeah, and you really must be a masochist to be able to handle this!” (At that I surreptitiously twist my left arm awkwardly to hide all the self-inflicted scars there that have healed a bright, stark WHITE against my olive skin.
“And you’re a sadist,” I mutter under my breath.

And then he starts again. I have never actually SWEATED during a massage. Nor have I had hot flashes. I began to think that the stress of the massage was putting me through early menopause. Great, I think. And I wanted another kid, dammit!

It’s nearly over now, I can tell because my muscles are much looser, and he’s using his hands to rub the knots out, as opposed to his forearms and elbows.

I hear a lot of popping.

And I’m thinking, “Ed, I’m a little embarrassed for you. Can’t you keep the finger cracking to a minimum?” It was almost as if he read my mind, because he suddenly said, “You hear that cracking? That’s YOU. You have so many adhesions, your muscles are popping back into place.” I asked him what an adhesion was, and he told me that it was when your muscles are so tense, they start to stick together, and that’s eventually what makes a knot. It was almost like hearing a little kid gleefully popping bubble wrap. It was disconcerting.

Then he says, “Is it alright if I work on your glutes a bit? They can also contribute to hurting your back.” “Sure,” I say comfortably, thinking for a rather dense-of-me moment that my glutes were where my hamstrings are. It must be the menopause fuddling with my brain.

And then I realized what my glutes were. My ASS. Don’t worry, I was wearing (adorable) panties, and there was a sheet and also a blanket over me, so there were three layers between his meaty hands and my fleshy bottom, but still it was…weird. Plus, under all that padding, I had no idea I even had bummers muscles. Isn’t it all just fat? But no! Alas! He found them, and he hurt them. His fist was a meat cleaver, and I was the rump roast.

At the end of the massage, Ed gave me a glass of water and told me to drink up. “Water is going to be your best friend,” he says. “I released a lot of metabolic discharge, and you’ll need water to flush it out.” I blanched. Had we just had sexual intercourse, or a completely appropriate (but painful) massage? All I can say is:

I never liked meat cleavers
or
sexual innuendos (however unintentional) by a sadistic masseuse named Ed.

And this morning?
I have no knots.
Or adhesions.

But my back is sore from, like, all the METABOLIC DISCHARGE.

Good thing I’m masochistic, eh?