Hold the Relish

“Simply relish the moist towel, and I will remove it from your body when I return in a minute.” No funnier words were ever spoken, certainly not during a massage. It’s kind of hard to reach that aaahhh moment when stifling laughter. Not that I wasn’t relaxed. I was. As relaxed as I get. Even in yoga, during savasana, or corpse pose, I am making to do lists and thinking/worrying about a slew of things even while transcending my current plane. “Simply relish the moist towel.” Ha ha.

I went for a massage at a place I have gone to for about two years, even though my favorite massage therapist left this past spring. I have a few gift certificates to use up, so I have yet to venture out on my own for a new massage therapist, which you would think would be imperative. After all, I am naked on a narrow table while a stranger rubs all over my body, so being comfortable with that person should be pretty high up on the list. It’s not that she is a bad massage therapist, she is actually quite good. It’s that she’s odd. She is first and foremost a top-notch salesperson. The salon where she works sells Aveda products, and she uses them by the vat, making sure I know the name of each one.

She began my massage with a cleansing foot bath, not just some salts, but with rosemary mint body wash comingling with deep cleanse purifying salt crystals. I sat with my feet in a giant stainless steel mixing bowl and swished my toes until she returned to pat my feet dry for me. I didn’t know if I should lift my feet for her or leave them down in the bowl, so I ended up marching awkwardly while almost kicking her in the face while she bent over from the waist, holding a towel across her forearms, trying to avoid my flailing legs while capturing my wet feet.

Then she left the room again while I disrobed and arranged myself on the table like a mail order bride on her wedding night. She came back in, and while I waited, she rearranged lots of glass bottles and vials, tinkering around in the dark, before she finally heaved herself on her little stool behind my head. She opened three vials, one at a time, and held each to my nose, gently closing my left nostril, the good one, while I breathed in deeply through my right one, the perpetually clogged one. I could not discern the difference with my defective nostril, thinking all three fragrances smelled of mowed lawn, and settled on number two. I asked her what fragrance it was, hoping for lavender or chamomile, but she answered with another product name, “Aveda Earth. It’s very grounding.” Huh?

She rubbed the Earth between her palms to simulate global warming and then hovered her hands above my face, instructing me to breathe deeply, then breathing deeply herself to demonstrate. I thought such relaxing thoughts as Don’t smother me! And Enough song dance, commence to rubbing. As if reading my mind, she did, but it was less about the massage and more about the spirituality and salesmanship. Penetrating intensive salve for my hands. Peppermint repair cream for my feet. Invigorating balm for my chronically tight IT band. Lots of deep breathing, her, not me. I flipped over. More of the same. Moist hot towels applied to my outer thighs. Another one for my feet. And finally, the one for my back, which I was to “simply relish.”

She left the room for the third time, and I lay there, under my now cold damp towel, almost positive that she never rubbed my right calf or left upper arm. With all the coming and going and breathing and product placement, limbs had been neglected. But there are only so many minutes in an hour, since a massage hour is really more of a suggestion than a guarantee, and sometimes arms and legs are sacrificed for the sales pitch.

As she escorted me out, she handed me a paper cone of water and asked me if I had my gallbladder removed, which I had, over a year ago. She told me my gallbladder acupressure points were “backed up.” It was like she had guessed my card was the queen of hearts. Damn, she’s good. I didn’t really know what to do about my gallbladder acupressure point back up, but I was tempted to buy the purifying salt crystals because she could read my body. And I don’t mind paying for a good show. I do love a good massage, but a bizarrely mediocre massage is pretty good too, only in a very different way.