Massage Relaxation Short Lived

All the relaxation from today’s massage is completely gone.

I always look forward to my biweekly massage therapy. I time it to be at the end of the day so that I don’t have to go anywhere or do anything afterwards. I can then theoretically remain in my peaceful stupor for the rest of the evening, curl up with the cats, and watch TV before drifting off into a tranquil sleep.

It rarely actually works out that way.

It starts off well, of course. When I arrive at the studio, I am ushered into a dimly lit room with new agey music softly covering the noise from outside. Isaac, the therapist, leaves me in private for a few minutes so I can take off my clothes. I love taking off my clothes. I’d be such a good nudist, except I get so chilly. I’ll never forget going to a nude beach near Santa Cruz, California and having to wear sweats because it was so cold. But I digress.

After disrobing, I crawl under the heated blankets on the massage table, situate my face in the face holder, and wait for Isaac to come back. Ahhh! Sometimes I’m asleep before he even enters the room.

Isaac very professionally works my back, my arms, my legs, and even (blissfully) my feet. He then rouses me to turn over so he can do my neck and shoulders. He has this way of finding the tense muscles and working them really hard, even occasionally using his elbow - strangely painful and comforting at the same time.

After an hour, Isaac tells me he’s finished and leaves the room so I can get dressed. I HATE this part. It’s so awful to have to put on dirty, sweaty, socks after having been blessedly naked under a clean warm blanket. I leave the dimly lit cocoon and emerge squinting into the bright reception area.

Then, at the peak of rush hour, I get to drive home. Finding the gap in traffic so I can turn into the busy street with just a few meters to get into the left turn lane is a nightmare. Navigating my way home among stupid drivers and short yellow lights finishes me off.

By the time I walk through the front door, I’m completely tense again. But it’s not over.

Thinking ahead, I usually go to the store before the massage so I’ll have something for dinner when I get home.

So as I open the door to the condo, I’m carrying my back pack, my gym bag, a handful of mail, and a bag of groceries. With great skill, I’ve manipulated the key into and out of the lock while simultaneously blocking Charles, the kitten, with my foot to keep him from running out.

Inside, I drop all the bags, block Charles from getting to the groceries, and fumble for the light.

Having slept all day, both cats, Lily and Charles, are ready for action. No sooner do I kick off my shoes than they are both insisting on being fed. It is a loud, unrelenting, chorus of meow-wailing. I cannot look at the mail. I am not allowed to go to the bathroom. I mustn’t take the time to hang up my coat. They want to be fed now. Oh, I’ve tried behavior modification and all that hoo-ha that I learned in college, training and conditioning them to wait until I’m ready, but they just meow and meow and meow, getting underfoot and knocking things over until I reach for the cat food.

As they eat, I unpack my groceries, prepare my dinner, and take my pills. The benefits of the massage are completely gone.

After eating, the three of us: Lily, Charles, and I, climb onto the couch for our evening cuddle. I have a stiff neck. They are completely relaxed.

I can’t wait for the next massage in two weeks. I really need to loosen up.