Last week I eased myself back into running, covering about 18 miles during three workouts--the most pavement pounding I'd done in a month. The first two outings were hip pain-free and I was optimistic that I'd either healed completely or had transferred my malady to strangers I'd rubbed against in the Harris Teeter checkout line. But Sunday's eight miler proved me wrong. Before I'd even stopped sweating, my pelvis felt liked it had been ground into mulch and the pain hasn't lessened any as the week has gone by. I've done everything but sprinkle ibuprofen on my cereal and have been intermittently icing it by sitting on a bag of Dora the Explorer brand frozen edamame, which makes me feel creepy on a number of levels.
As luck would have it--and trust me, Luck rings my bell less often than Job Offers or Clear Skin--I got a birthday card from My Former Boyfriend this week that contained a gift certificate to a local massage parlor, perhaps as his way of saying I'm no longer interested in touching you, so maybe these people will. I ignored the fact that my birthday was a solid five months ago; considering that he forgot not to spelunk other women during our relationship, I can see how my 29th might slip his mind too.
Anyway, it's been a long time since I've had a massage because day spas--along with property taxes, oil changes, and brand-name soup--are luxuries that don't exactly fit into my budget. I haven't even thought of paying someone to rub my back since I went to the '07 Orange Bowl when my hotel had a heavily advertised spa the size of a Sam's Club. I had some time before it was appropriate to start drinking heavily so I slipped into the embroidered robe hanging in my closet and decided to check it out. I strolled down the hall and was immediately greeted by a chiseled Abercrombie dropping whose name was probably a noun. He led me into a treatment room and had me answer a list of questions including whether I've ever had a baby and my thoughts on rheumatoid arthritis. I stared at his biceps and quickly checked all of the 'No' boxes, wondering how soon he'd have his hands on me.
He took my clipboard and scanned my answers, his mouth visibly moving as he read down the page. "So where would you like me to focus my efforts today?" he asked earnestly. I clicked the logo ballpoint pen a few times, trying to gather myself before I could snicker or say "My vagina" but the wicked smile that slowly seeped across my face was hard not to notice.
He noticed.
Tucking his hair behind his ears, he stood up and gave me a look like I'd just shoved his puka shell necklace up my ass. He suggested that I didn't have the "proper constitution" for these treatments and walked out of the room, the door softly closing behind him. I shrugged it off as just another rejection in a lifetime chock full of 'em, and stayed behind long enough to fill the pockets of my robe with bottled water and tubes of hotel branded lotion.
Cut To: yesterday when I took my gift certificate across town to a strip mall anchored by an organic grocery store and a couple of boutiques that sell sustainable articles of clothing that look itchy and smell like dirt farts. I hurried past each open door before they could realize I'm a meat-eating, non-recycling Earthfucker and punish me accordingly, possibly by making me wear one of their outfits. The massage place was on the end of the row and before I even opened the door, I was assaulted by eucalyptus-scented potpourri, like they spent the morning roasting koalas on a bed of cough drops.
A woman who introduced herself as Wisdom typed my name into the computer as a pair of men wearing sterile-looking shirts arranged aromatherapy candles on the shelf. They were both superhot and looked like they could spend their days wrestling large animals if only it didn't wreck their cuticles.
I was wondering which one of them I'd get to disrobe for--and how early in the massage I could tell him to please focus on my butt meat--when Wisdom signaled for my attention. "OK, you're all set", she said, her eyes magnified behind a pair of Lisa Loeb glasses she borrowed from 1994. "Ruth will be taking care of you today." Ruth? Shit. I've only known one Ruth in my entire life, a pinched looking woman who lived in my parents' neighborhood whose passion for cigarettes was only matched by her passion for gum disease and yelling.
As if on cue, she lumbered out to greet me and my ste-Ruth-otype was right on. She was a large, broad-backed woman, the kind that if placed on all fours would make an excellent coffee table. Shaking her hand was like shoving it into a trash compactor and I was still rubbing my fingerbones as she led me down a dimly lit hallway to the massage room. "Get undressed to the point you're comfortable," she said, a phrase that would sound more seductive if it wasn't being whispered by a woman the size of a Chevy Nova. I tossed my clothes on the chair, got under the sheet, and noticed that there was a softly-playing soundtrack of birds chirping. It was supposed to be soothing but instead I felt like I'd been left in a field to die.
Ruth came back into the room and dimmed the lights. I told her a bit about my hip issues and she gave a concerned-sounding grunt before jamming the heels of both hands into my upper back, rubbing with the intensity of someone trying to smooth a stubborn bubble out of a piece of wallpaper. "So what do you do for work?" she asked me. I stopped biting my clenched fists long enough to answer. "I'm a freelance writer," I told her, because a liberal arts education means I can say freelancer instead of unemployed.
"Lots of time at one of them computers," she said, ramming her knuckles into the base of my neck. "That explains this knot right here. It's the size of a box turtle." I'm altogether unfamiliar with box turtles, other than knowing what it feels like to run over one so I didn't know what to say other than "Really?"
"Yup. Before them computers, a hundred years ago, you wouldn't have box turtles like this." Of course not, Ruth. Because one of the village elders would have extracted it and cooked it into a stew. "Don't worry," she said, pummeling me with either her elbow or a tree branch. "I'm gettin' rid of this turtle."
It's always unnerving when people have to use amphibians to describe your body. I couldn't wait till she told me my hamstrings were like a bucket of angry salamanders. I was also sweating from the pain and wondering whether we should've established a safe word when she grabbed my butt. I clenched. I seized. I...cleized. "You could bounce a quarter off these glutes," she offered.
"Um...thanks?" I replied, horrified and considering jumping out the window before she could show me the other techniques she learned in the women's prison. "That ain't a good thing," she told me, mashing away like she was fixing a divot.
Despite the fact that she was still muttering the word "turtle" under her breath, I somehow managed to relax. I let Ruth do her job--which meant trying to crush my bones like empty soda cans--and the rest of the hour flew by like the sparrows that were chasing each other through the speakers. It also meant that my hip felt...better. "All set," she told me, wiping her hands on the front of her pants. "Get yourself dressed and I'll see you out front".
I stood up on unsteady legs, wobbling like a shopping cart with a bad wheel. I walked out, tipped Ruth and waved goodbye to Wisdom. "Happy birthday!" she shouted at my back before I got all the way out the door. I started walking back to my car, passing two of the eco-boutiques before breaking into a run and feeling younger than I had all year.
