Massage Envy

I don't like massages.  I know that's weird.  And it's not that I'm modest about being naked in front of a stranger, cause I'm not.  Which I  know is also weird.  But, it's just about everything else about the process that makes me uncomfortable.  Because, it's actually my anxiety that keeps me from relaxing and enjoying a massage.

First of all, you have to make a phone call to make an appointment.  Ugh.  I  hate talking on the phone so much.  But, not nearly as much as I hate Skype or Facetime.  Which is why I don't do either.    The only reason I'd actually go through the hassle to make an appointment is if I got a gift card for a massage.  Which is why I got my first two massages in the first place.  I've only ever had three.

After you make the appointment, then you actually have to go to the massage place.  Which means beforehand I'm going to put on my cute underwear.  Which means I have to find it.  I do the same thing when I go to the doctor for a pap smear.  Because when they put you in a room and give you time to undress, I'm always worried I won't have enough time and they'll come in when I'm mid-change and I'll be in ugly undies.  Which is somehow horrifying to me.  Even though on a daily basis I wear mismatched, ugly undies.  But, no one would know that because they don't see them.  Unless you write a blog post about it, of course.

Before you know it I'm in the massage room, completely naked, folding my clothes because I don't want the masseuse to think I'm a slob.  Even though I'm a complete and total slob and I wouldn't fold them at home.  But, I don't want this person who's going to touch me naked that I'll never see ever again to know that.  This is when I hop up on the table, strategically placing the sheet over me and try to relax.  But, I can't.  Cause my mind doesn't stop racing.  And it's usually because I'm calculating the tip.  Then recalculating it over again because I'm horrible at math.  Oh my god,  what if the price went up?  Or what if they give me the wrong kind of massage and it's a different price?  Must recalculate all the possibilities.   And where do I put the tip?  Is there a jar?  Or do I hand it to the person?

The massage hasn't even started yet and I'm already distressed.  After what seems like an eternity with my own swirling thoughts, Hannah comes in to give me my massage.  Not to be judgy, but I'm kinda disappointed that she's smaller than me.  She doesn't look capable.  Does she really have the hand strength to do this for an hour?  God, I'm such an awful person for even thinking that.  Size doesn't mean anything.  You know what you are?  You're a misogynist, Marie.   

Ok, relax and just act normal already! 

She starts at my head.  Oh, this is nice.  What if I fall asleep during this with my head through the little donut hole, face to the floor and she has to wake me up and there's this big line of drool?  Wait a minute, do I have a zit on my head?  I did wash behind my ears right?  Her hands move down to my neck.  How doesn't this rainforest's music make her have to pee?  Wait...I think I have to pee.  No, you just peed before you came in the room.  You do not have to pee.  YOU DO NOT HAVE TO PEE, I SAID!

She's worked herself down to my shoulders, arms and hands.  Hand and foot rubs are my favorites.  So, I actually enjoy this part.  Except Hannah forgets to do one of my hands.  Should I say something?  I want to.  But, maybe she'll come back to it later.  She probably got distracted by all the moles on my back.  Dammit, I really need to schedule an appointment with the dermatologist.  And what about all the bruises all over my body from pole dance?  She probably thinks I'm a battered woman.  

How is she timing when to move on to the next body part anyway?  Is there some kind of timer in the room somewhere?  Or is she singing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star in her head?  

She moves down to my legs. I hope it's not one of those days that I shaved one leg and then forgot to shave the other one.  Oh no, she's headed down to my feet!  Since, I'm the only girl in Northern America who doesn't mani-pedi, my feet are hideous.  Complete with cuts, callouses, over grown cuticles and a little sock lint under my nail.  But, god, that feels so good.  Wait a minute!  She only did my left foot.  Just like she only did my right hand.  WTF?  I should say something.  But, what would I say exactly? Says nothing.  Maybe it's just some new kind of asymmetric massage.  I wonder if I pay more for that.  Recalculates the tip again.

When she's finally done, she asks me if I want to use the shower.  Are you kidding me?  Oh god, NO!  I can't even imagine the anxiety I'd have about taking a shower at the spa.  I just want to get out of here.  Recalculates the tip again.  Before throwing on my clothes (it's surprisingly difficult to get jeans on when you're covered in massage oil), leaving a 20% tip on the massage table.  But, what if another massage therapist uses this room next and Hannah doesn't get the tip I left?  What then?  Whatever, I'll never see her again.

The truth is, I have massage envy. 
I'm jealous of anyone who doesn't have massage induced anxiety.

ADDENDUM:  The second time I called the same place to schedule a massage to use the rest of my gift card, I requested not to have Hannah.  Just to see if I liked it better with someone different.  And to my shock, who walked in but Hannah.  Turns out, when I scheduled the first massage they told me I'd have Hannah, but she was unable to do the massage and skinny-whats-her-face filled in for her the first time.  No, I'm totally not joking.  And my third massage?  It was in Morocco where a Thai lady massaged my boobs.  You know what they say, the third time's the charm.  Cause, that's when I decided massages aren't worth the stress they put me through.