Massage This!
I will be the first to admit … I am a massage junkie. A massage whore. A massage aficionado. Nothing makes me happier than 90 minutes of oily bliss. I get one at least twice a month – sometimes more if finances permit.
Back in college, I took two semesters of massage therapy training. Didn’t care for it in the least. I did, however, find that I enjoyed getting massages a helluva lot more than I did giving them. My tense muscles were spoiled by all that attention and ever since then they’ve cried out for more.
I have four or five therapists I keep on a random rotation … because if I want a massage I want one RIGHT NOW. Forget scheduling. Forget planning. I want to call someone and say, “I’ll be over in fifteen minutes. Break out the hot stones!” Sometimes I need to be beat up. Other times I just need general relaxation. Other times I’m just ridiculously stressed and need all the tension gone from my shoulder blades. (You can tell when I’m in a mood. I’m hunched over more than a crippled Neanderthal.)
Since I travel to a lot of massage therapy schools, I’m likely to schedule a massage every day over lunch. Who needs to eat when you could get a 30-minute rubdown instead? I’m no fool.
Once I went to Kansas City’s “premiere” massage therapist. She charges $200 a session. (Uh, someone got me a gift certificate.) For $200, I would expect Van Halen to be playing in concert when I’m done. Seems she works on a lot of famous people and well-known athletes. The massage was impressive, but only because she walked on my back for a while and bended me in positions designed only for pretzels. And there was a long stretch of time where she wasn’t touching me at all. I believe that part was called faith healing. I’m not sure, but I think she left to go get a latte’.
I’m apparently not the only one who enjoys a good backrub. Massage therapy is a $20 billion industry. Yes, with a “B”. So if you’re ever hard pressed to get me the perfect gift, now you know what trips my trigger.
