Less Talking, More Rubbing

My massage therapist quit. It’s almost as tough as a break-up. I know it was him, not me, but still, I must move past him and find another one to take his place. If you think about it, finding a new masseuse is about as difficult as finding a new boyfriend. You have to trust this new person enough to get naked and let him or her touch your body, to help you relax, or to work out your most hidden pockets of pain. It is not a relationship to take lightly.

The best way to find that someone new is Groupon. At least if it doesn’t work out, I didn’t pay full price. This applies only to the massage therapist. You’re on your own for the new boyfriend part. I don’t even know how to find an old boyfriend.

Last week, I went for a massage to the salon where this Groupon massage therapist works. I should have known something was a little off about the place for a couple of reasons. First, I have never noticed  the salon before even though I drive by it at least three times a week. Second, the entire parking lot was filled with Buicks and Toyota Avalons and even a Lincoln or two. I went inside and knew from the smell that something was up.

Do you remember way back when you would go to a salon and the entire place reeked of that pissy permanent solution? Well, that’s what this place smelled like, a combination of formaldehyde and urine. Yes, I had stumbled into some sort of underground blue hair salon. Every chair was taken with elderly women getting their weekly shampoo and set.  Old ladies were under heated dome dryers or had heads full of plastic curlers. The cackling and coughing were as overpowering at the stench.
You know how at Disney World, they have a little parking area for strollers? Well, this place had the same thing, only for walkers and wheelchairs. There was a line for the restroom. I could feel my ovaries drying up as I sat in the waiting area.

How did they all know about this place? I kind of got why I might not have heard of it, but is there some sort of secret senior network that distributes this kind of information? It sure as hell wasn’t on my Groupon voucher; “consider this your senior discount” wasn’t anywhere in the small print.

My massage therapist came out to greet me, and I was pleased to see she looked so spry. She escorted me to the room and went over my paperwork before getting down to business. The room looked like a Hobby Lobby vomited all over it. Ornate crosses, reproduction prints of the Sistine Chapel, more crosses, inspirational quotes. At least none of the crosses were burning. Even the background music sounded sort of hymn-like. I didn’t know if she was a very devout Christian or thought the majority of her clients were, but all that crossy cross made me more than a little uncomfortable.

She asked about my health history and then excused herself while I disrobed and got on the table. She came back in and began my massage, making small talk in a way I prefer my massage therapists not do. First, she started talking about getting a higher degree. I asked in what field, and she told me she was working towards a doctorate in metaphysical science.

What does one say to that? Wow, you are getting a higher degree in the science of everything not science? Is that online or is there an actual institute of higher learning where one can earn such a degree? If it is online, is there a graduation ceremony?  Instead, I mumbled something about not knowing much about metaphysics, which is true, I don’t. I’m not up on all my New Age quackery.

But no matter, she seemed pretty well versed in it, which I discovered when the small talk veered off to a discussion about our children. We were comparing stories about our kids, in a getting to know you, not my kids are better than your kids sort of way. I was talking about how artistic my daughters are, with one of them studying guitar and piano while the other likes piano and ballet. We talked about their personalities, and how school is for our kids, and then she said to me, “I bet your girls are indigo children.”

Not knowing what that meant, I chose to stay silent. After all, she was working on her doctorate in metaphysical science. She probably had coursework in it.

“Do you know about the indigo children?” she asked me.

“I do not,” I said.

“Well, Google it when you get a chance. I bet your children are indigos.”

When I got home, I got right on my desktop and looked up indigochildren.  Guess what? It is a New Age thing, but mainstream enough that CNN covered it in the past few years. Basically, it can be used to describe a whole gaggle of kids, ranging from the artistic and sensitive types to the kids who talk to dead people and bend spoons with their brains.

 When my daughters got home from school, I asked them if they ever saw dead people. They indicated they had not, although my older daughter said she did see a dead deer on the side of the road on the drive home. She didn’t sound all that sensitive when she said it.

I'm sure Groupon will have another massage deal tomorrow.