There's the Rub

A few months ago, when my sister, LK, came to town for a visit, we wanted to treat ourselves. We are normally pedicure fans, but there’s a local place that offers foot reflexology and massages that I wanted to try. I had not been able to talk anyone into going with me, and honestly, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go alone. It seemed like the kind of experience that required a witness and possibly a safe word. I also wasn’t entirely sure what it involved, but it was an hour long and cost the same as getting my toes painted, so it seemed worth a gamble. My daughter, S, wanted to join us because her feet are a hot mess from years of dance, or more specifically, years of pointe shoes. I made reservations for the three of us.

The foot massage place was located in a strip mall, and it had the same sort of feel as a Chinese take-out. There were handwritten signs on the windows with the specials scribbled on them: Good Deal 30 min foot 30 min massage, and Treat Self, 50 min massage with 15 neck, walk in welcome. We went inside and were met at the door by a tall Asian man who did not speak but indicated through gestures that we should follow him. He never asked for our names, but I guess we were the only party of three that came in, so there was no need for formalities.

Down the hall were a series of small rooms with open doorways, some of which were partially obscured by a curtain of sheer fabric or hanging beads. Most had a single massage table in the center of the room, which made me wonder how many massages could be performed at the same time. I suppose it would depend on the therapists scheduled at a particular time. That made me wonder if they had a busy time because they are open seven days a week for roughly twelve hours a day. That made me wonder about the privacy. These were small rooms, mind you. Even hookers would have felt exposed.

He led us to a dimly lit room with about eight black leather padded chairs with ottomans, all in a row. Half of the chairs were occupied by older Asian women who had towels on their laps. Some of them were having their heads rubbed, while others were receiving their vigorous foot massages. All of the massage therapists, if you will, were middle-aged to older Asian men.

The man pointed at three vacant chairs. I sat in one, S took the seat next to me, and LK sat in the third, closest to where the rest of the action was. LK immediately settled back on her chair and closed her eyes. She is quite adept at relaxing. S, on the other hand, has never had a massage, not even of her feet, and she certainly hasn’t been touched by a grown Asian man. She sat up stiffly, trying not to stare at the other patrons. The men were finishing up their massage work by slapping the bottoms of the ladies’ feet and pounding on their calves with fists.

S tapped me on the arm and bugged out her eyes. Let’s just say she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to relax. It didn’t occur to me until that moment that a grown man, an absolute stranger, was about to put his hands on my fourteen year old child. This was exactly the kind of situation she spent most of her life trying to avoid.

One of the men finished and left the room. He returned carrying a large wooden bucket. It was lined with a clear plastic bag and filled with water. He set it down in front of my chair and indicated that I should put my feet in it, which I did. It was tepid and felt a bit like I had my feet in a small trashcan that had been left out in the rain. He left the room and came back with the same setup for S, and then a third time for LK. My sister stuck her feet into her bucket and reclined again. S couldn’t decide what to do. I gestured to her to roll up her pants and stick her feet in the water. In her awkwardness, she managed to kick the bucket accidentally and spill half the water onto the floor.

We sat with our feet in buckets, trying to relax. After a little while, the first Asian man and two other men came in and sat on the ottomans. They worked in a synchronized rhythm, first lifting our feet out of the buckets, then patting them dry with towels before repositioning the ottoman and starting the reflexology portion of the massage.

Reflexology must involve some ancient Asian wisdom, but on the surface, it is more a combination of ungodly pressure that manages to hurt and tickle at the same time. There is a lot of toe pulling and arch irritating, interspersed with ankle twisting. It’s a bit more spirited than your standard Swedish massage technique, designed to get deep into the tissues that may or may not correspond with your inner organs that could possibly release whatever toxins may be hiding there.

I tried to remain calm but I couldn’t. I sat there stiffly with my feet in a stranger’s hands, worrying about my daughter next to me. Maybe that’s why spas tell you to leave your children at home.

 After the foot squeezing ended, they slapped the bottoms of our feet and pounded on our calves and thighs with closed fists. It didn’t hurt, but it also didn’t feel good, like getting hit with a ball that was thrown underhand.

Finally, the Asian men moved behind our chairs and began the neck and head portion of the massage. Normally, I rather enjoy a scalp massage, but not with hands that are covered in feet cells. I didn’t recall the men leaving the room to freshen up; they just switched positions and kept at it. Feet in hair, hair on chair. I wanted to take a peek at their DHEC inspection paperwork, but I also wanted to get my money’s worth. After some uncomfortable neck squeezing and odd arm pulling, the spa treatment ended.

They left the room and the three of us sat up, unsure of what to do next. We stepped into our shoes and walked back down the hallway to the counter near the door where we entered. A woman stood behind the counter, and on the floor next to her was a baby. The baby fussed as she tried to indicate, without words, what we needed to pay. We settled up as she passed the baby over to one of the foot-rubbing men, and he tried to calm it. Apparently, this was one spa that was fine with children of all ages.

Would I go again? Absolutely! Thirty bucks for a complete stranger to rub my feet in a non-sexual way is a steal, people. It might not be the most relaxing spa treatment, but you get what you pay for. Although, you might want to leave your kids at home.