Monday, January 22, 2007
The Massage.

One of my friends sponsored a massage for me. She saw me schlepping Zalman in my baby holder and said, "You know what? I want you to go to this lady." She whipped out a business card. "How much does it cost?" I asked. "It's on me. As long as you go to her, I'll pay for it. She's amazing."

So I made an appointment. On the phone, I got a really strong sense that the massage therapist was a lesbian. Today, when I went for my appointment, I felt sure of it. She was tall and muscular, with short grey curls and piercing blue eyes. Her hands were clean and strong. She was ugly and beautiful all at once.

She led me into a room. I looked around, and my eyes rested on a statue. A laughing, fat, god-man, surrounded by crystals. I immediately averted my eyes. I saw all her books on massage therapy and anatomy. I saw her degrees on the wall, her poster of Qi manifestations in different organs. I saw a picture of Mr. J with chakras. Why did my frum friend send me to this new-age lesbian?

She left the room, telling me to take off as much as I felt comfortable with. I removed "what I felt comfortable with," took off my wig and put my hat on. I laid on the beautiful table and covered myself with a towel.

She massaged and we chatted. She told me she recently had a hysterectomy, and that she was 50. I told her I had 4 kids and I was 31. She told me I had a lot of stuff stored in my muscles. She had a lot of frum clients, she said. "Most don't even bother with a hat," she said. I explained how I'd feel more "naked" without a hat, than the state of undress I was in.

I got a great massage. It was truly healing. I made another appointment, a month from now. I'm glad I'm allowing myself to take care of me.


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My Photo Name: Fancy Schmancy Anxiety Maven
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