Massage Scare-apy

Ask any Massage Therapist what their biggest problem is and they'll probably answer, "Finding a good Massage Therapist." Sure, we have friends in the field who swap sometimes, but coordinating schedules becomes it's own hassle and sometimes we just want to go pay for a great massage. And by great massage, I mean no-pain-no-gain deep tissue. And that part where they say "Let me know if it's too much pressure?" No. Sir. I will not. And maybe let's just don't talk at all while we're at it. Which is why I very rarely tell them that I'm an LMT, because as soon as my face hits the padded ring, it's like they can't help themselves and ask, "So where'd you go to massage school?" And believe it or not, I'm too polite to say, "I went to SHUTTY-Ville."
Maybe I need to work on my boldness.

One thing about Massage Therapy is there's a wide range of personalities drawn to the field. You might show up and find them wearing scrubs, dressy clothes, jeans, shorts, hipster garb, or heavily tattooed in a mumu and head wrap. I have a home office, so I'm more of a shorts & t-shirt girl, unless you schedule an early morning session, then it's jammie pants for me. Massage Therapists get away with basically anything.

Anyway, Ron knows that a good massage is the go-to gift for me, and he's always on the hunt for the perfect one. Of course he has no way of knowing who will be the right match for me, so I've had a variety of interesting experiences.

But once you find your person, you hang on to them to the point of stalker-like tendencies. I found a guy named Peter in Hilton Head and went to him every time we went down there, but then Peter freakin' moved and ruined my vacations forever, but whatever, Peter. Do what you need to do, Peter.

Ever since then, my Hilton Head massages have been a total crap shoot. I saw one lady who met me at the door and opened with "prepare for me to love on you for an hour," gave me frequent hugs, liked my "energy" and kept whispering that I was a "good receiver." As an Introvert, this entire scene was the stuff of nightmares. But at one point, I think I almost drooled, and when she grabbed my foot, one of us groaned. I don't think it was me, but then again, I might've almost drooled so who the hell knows. Toward the end, she rolled me over, put bean bags over my eyes and then one of the bean bags fell over my nostril and I thought, this is it. This is how it's gonna end. Suffocated by a bean bag blindfold under the spell of a voodoo energy trance. Protect me Jesus.

The whole thing was weird. Like, serial killer weird.
I threw away her business card.

So last year, Ron got picky. He called several different people on the island until he found the one. He was sure of it. "Shar, this chick massages Sylvester Stallone when he visits here." Well, then. What could go wrong? So he booked me a 90 minute session and I began slightly regretting my request for deep tissue from a lady who massages Rocky and probably crushes grapefruit with her bare hands for fun.

I was a little surprised to arrive and find a much older lady dressed in a long white skirt and crazy socks with no shoes. The only way to describe her massage technique would be sporadic. Absolutely no rhyme or rhythm to it. Neck, leg, hand, foot, back, foot, arm...If her intention was to confuse the crap out of me, she was succeeding, all the while coming in and out of the room to "get stuff." Whatever that "stuff" was, I didn't ask, partly because she wouldn't stop talking. Non-stop with the talking. Let's just say, I now know more about Sylvester Stallone and Jennifer Flavin than I should ever legally know. And according to her, I have a "high positive healing intention." That's a new one. Also, she claims she's psychic. Relevance? Unclear.

When she excused herself to go to the bathroom, I lay there seething, wondering if she's so psychic, why didn't she know she'd have to pee beforehand and plan accordingly? Has she ever interrupted Sylvester Stallone's time and told him she had to pee? I'm gonna guess no. Clearly this lady is crazy.

And when she returned from the potty, she sealed my suspicion with one question.
"Has anyone ever told you what good energy you have?"

Ok, nut job, that's it. If you're not picking up on my pissed off energy vibes at this point, one of us is way off, and I'm gonna go with you on this one. I'm also pretty sure my days of Hilton Head massages are o-vah.

But several months later, Ron bought me a gift certificate for my birthday and redeemed himself. Sort of. I mean, the hour of silence while Angela used her weight to try to push my body through the table was glorious...it was that follow-up hour in the sensory deprivation tank that has me wondering if my husband maybe wants me dead.

Stay tuned for Thanks, But No Tanks, coming soon to a blog near you.