massage

Work For and From the Inside

About a week ago my mom, sister and I went to get massages.

We’d each received a gift certificate for Christmas and were finally able to make (and keep) an appointment, since the first couple were cancelled due to one of us having COVID.

We were very excited, as we’d booked—for the first time ever—ninety-minute massages. And with a myriad of different stressors weighing on us from the past month or so, we were ready (and desperate) to *relax*.

I had even asked for the deep tissue massage, which, if you happened to read this post regarding my feelings on my first ever massage, will let you know 1) how much of the massage Kool-Aid I’ve drank over the last few years, and 2) how much I wanted the stress more or less beaten out of me. I wanted that stress to run for its life. I wanted a stress exorcism.

When the masseuse asked if there were any areas to focus on, I said: neck, shoulders and back.

They have forever been where I hold everything. From the annoyance of that bad driver I encountered on the freeway yesterday, to that mean thing a girl said to me in high school 15 years ago. It’s also where, for a long time, my muscles were working overtime to keep my head on my shoulders due to my bad posture—that I’ve since put in a lot of energy (and a lot of money at the chiropractor) to correct.

Needless to say, I love having my neck, shoulders and back massaged. It feels like ironing a wrinkly shirt. And since it had been a while since my last massage, I was sure there were going to be quite a few wrinkles to tend to.

To my surprise, as I lay face down on the table and the masseuse dug into what seemed like the very core of my spine, assumedly finding evidence that I still hadn’t fully forgiven someone who wronged me in the seventh grade, he asked, “do you ever do any kind of stretching or foam rolling?”

I tried to nod, but then remembered my face was framed by the pillow, making my neck borderline immovable.

“Yes,” I said. “I foam roll my back a few times a week”—something that was recommended by my chiropractor—“and I try to do yoga two or three times a week.”

He made a quick “mhm” noise, and I assumed it was partnered with a nod.

“I can tell,” he said. “While you have tension in your back, there are no knots at all. So your efforts are paying off.”

I lay there, letting his words repeat in my head.

I thought about all the anxiety I felt going into our day at the spa. I always got nervous knowing I’d have to spend time in my bathing suit—or naked, under the sheets of the massage table—overly critical of my body and how it compared to others.

I thought of all the times I’d done yoga, or gone for a run or a walk, hoping that the efforts I was putting in would garner positive results that I could see in the mirror.

I thought of all the times I’d hidden my body behind baggy clothes, anxious hands, or the body of someone else.

And then I thought about how my body, my muscles, and my bones themselves might be benefiting from my exercise, my (mostly) healthy diet, my efforts to meditate, and to express myself both emotionally, physically, and creatively.

Those efforts might not show in the mirror. They might not match up to some kind of image I have in my head of what a body is “supposed” to look like. But they do change the way my body feels. They do the work on the inside of my body.

We are told so often to focus on physical results and to hit monetary goals, when so much benefit can come from doing work for and from the inside first. I know what it feels like when I eat healthy, when I exercise, when I don’t slouch, when I can relax into deep, honest conversations with those I trust. These things make me feel light, they bring an ease to my days, and, apparently, give me the iron to take to that wrinkly shirt.

After the massage, I lay on one of the daybeds beside my mom, reading a book and listening to the sound of falling water. Then I took a long, hot shower and blow dried my hair. On the way home, we picked up dinner from one of my favorite places and then sat on the couch and watched a movie.

It was a great day, not because things looked perfect on the outside, but because they felt good from the inside.

A Celebratory Massage (Adventures at the Spa: Part 4)

My sister just passed her comprehensive exams for grad school, making her a certified Speech-Language Pathologist.

*pause for much deserved applause*

To celebrate her accomplishment and combat the years of hard work leading up to it, as well as the weeks and weeks of stress she went through studying for the exam, I booked massage appointments for her, my mom and I.

If you’ve been around this blog for a little while, you might know that I have had an aversion/borderline fear of massages in the past, which is why on our previous trip to the spa I opted for being swaddled in a cocoon—which you can read about here. This time around however, I was determined to go all in.

Seeing as this year has been chockFULL of calendar events, and I had been sipping on secondhand stress for my sister, I was actually in a place where a massage sounded useful. Necessary, even. So as we sat at the spa that afternoon, clad in our luxurious white robes, and already relaxed after having spent a couple hours checking out the sauna, steam room and Jacuzzi, I was only slightly nervous. And when my name was called and I was led back to the room and asked to disrobe by my very nice masseuse, Rochelle, I only awkwardly giggled once.

Then it began.

After lying on my stomach and tucking myself under the sheet, Rochelle walked back into the room and promptly pulled the sheet all the way over my head. This immediately made me feel like a corpse, which wasn’t exactly relaxing, but then I thought, is there anything more relaxing than being dead? So I went full rigor mortis and let her go to work.

Looking back at my first massage, I compared the work of the masseuse to that of a baker kneading bread. I remembered this as Rochelle started massaging my back, and I had a sudden realization that I was the bread. And when I accepted that, I realized the true key to surviving and thriving your way through a massage.

Be dead. Be bread. Get read.

That is: allow yourself to melt into the table and, for lack of a better word, DIE. Then embrace your temporary identity as a batch of dough needing…kneading. And then let the masseuse read you, i.e. go hunting for everywhere you’ve been hiding and holding stress, anxiety, and those cringy, awkward moments you’ve been trying to forget about.

Be dead. Be bread. Get read.

Following this mantra, it was no time at all before Rochelle was telling me our 50 minutes were up. As a testament to her work, when I stood up, my legs felt like jello and my hair was sticking out in seemingly every direction. And since I was still naked, I realized I was the perfect embodiment of a troll doll.

But alas, with a smile on my face, my rubber band back in my hair, and my robe securely fastened, I walked back into the waiting room a new woman. I was relaxed, I was moisturized, and I was now a massage person.

The Lavender Milk & Honey Cocoon (Adventures at the Spa: Part 3)

If you’ll recall this post I wrote a couple of years ago, I was…anxious about my first ever massage. But since I survived, and—with some reflection—understood there were in fact benefits, I decided that once I hit my 1000-mile running goal, I’d give massages another go.

Before I ever went to a spa, I used make passing comments that if I did, I’d rather they “wrap me in a leaf” or “put me in mud for a few hours” than give me a massage. While one of those wishes was more or less fulfilled a few years back (which you can read about here) I decided that this post-running spa trip probably would (and should) consist of a massage.

Fast-forward a few weeks to the Friday after Christmas. My mom had put in an extensive amount of research to try and make my spa day dreams come true, and as we sat on cushioned lounge chairs in white cloth robes, waiting to be called back to our individual rooms, I was both anxious and excited.

“Kimberlee,” a woman said as she approached us.

“That’s me.”

She guided me down a hallway and pointed to a white door, all the while explaining what would be involved in my lavender milk and honey cocoon. (Yeah, remember that leaf I’d always wanted? That idea went out the window the minute I learned of the opportunity to go full insect on the world.)

I walked into the room and my masseuse, Natalie (the same name as my sister, a.k.a her first win in my book) told me she was going to step out of the room for a few minutes. In that time, I could adjust the lighting, the music being played, the temperature of the room, and finally, take off my robe and lie on my stomach.

I didn’t end up changing any of the settings she mentioned, but on par with both of the other spa experiences I’ve had, I spent a solid amount of time on the underwear debate. Do I keep it on? Do I take it off? Should I have taken it off before she led me back here?

With my robe already off, and my underwear in my hand, I paced back and forth across the room—in perhaps the strangest way I’ve ever thought something over—and eventually decided to tuck my underwear in my robe pocket. When Natalie knocked, I was under the covers with my face stuffed into that pillow that always seems one size too small.

“Alright Ms. Kim, we’re going to start with the body buff.”

And for the next twenty minutes, I was quite literally buffed. Using a scrub that felt like sandy soap (in a good way?) I felt like she was exercising every imperfection out of my skin. The only hiccup was when she reached for my stomach and my skin literally moved away from her hands, like a cartoon character fidgeting away from danger. Luckily Natalie seemed unfazed and finished the spiff job like I was a classic car going to auction.

She then asked me to stand up, rinse off in the shower—which I didn’t even notice was there—then come back in with my towel open in the back and sit up straight on the table. It was pretty straightforward. And aside from feeling slightly like I was at the gyno, I was excited for step two, a.k.a THE COCOON.

Now, it’s probably clear—or if it isn’t, allow me to clarify—I am a human girl. However, once my masseuse began to lather—not sprinkle, not dab, LATHER—the honey & lavender milk mixture on my skin, I quickly began my transformation into a mouth watering KFC biscuit. And while I kept wanting to feel, I don’t know, gross because of how much I undoubtedly resembled a human flytrap, I managed to maintain a head space of bliss rather than bleh.

I’d like to say this was from my newly found spa-maturity, however, I’m 100% sure it was attributed to the fact that after she finished a section of my body she would layer on hot towels, making me feel like a moisturized mummy, something I never knew I wanted to be. And if that wasn’t great enough, once I was to honey what Eggo waffles should be to syrup, she pulled the sides of the weighted blanket I was laying on over me and tied me into it.

I repeat, SHE TIED ME INTO IT.

It was like I was a 5 year old being burrito-ed into bed by my dad all over again and I was LIVING. FOR. IT.

As a final step, she turned off the lights, giving me an ample atmosphere for my caterpillar/peasant to moth/full blown goddess transformation. Then, after just the right amount of time (i.e. long enough that I could have grown honey scented wings but not so long that I’d develop cocoon claustrophobia a.k.a a level of fear I never want to unlock) Natalie slowly lifted the lights, unzipped me and told me to rinse off in the shower again.

Once I was back on the table, we began the 50-minute massage included with the package, which was substantially less terrifying than my first one. Mostly because I knew what to expect, but also because by that point I felt like Natalie and I had been through a lot together and I trusted she wouldn’t do anything to break the strong (probably one-sided) bond we’d built. In the end, I’m happy to report the massage went off without a hitch, save for the few minutes at the end when the music changed to what sounded like the soundtrack to The Godfather, and I lost focus on relaxation and started thinking about you know, murder.

When Natalie was finished, she heated my robe in…umm…a magical robe heater…I assume—I honestly have no idea—and then she once again stepped out, giving me privacy to get dressed. As you can imagine, getting up sounded impossible at this point, let alone getting dressed and reentering the real world. But I managed to muster up the strength (see: courage). Afterwards, Natalie led me back down the hallway to the cushiony lounge chairs where it all began. She also gave me an apple and a magazine with an article about JK Rowling in it, making me wonder if I should just propose. Before I could decide however, she was gone.

My First Massage (Adventures at the Spa: Part 2)

There I was, face down on a table, left butt cheek out, thinking about high school…

Wait, I should back up a bit.

I walked into a dark room in nothing but a cloth robe and found Kendra, who flipped on some classical music.

Woah. Wait, that took it a different direction. Let’s go to the very beginning.

Saturday night my mom, sister and I got a call from our friend Julie that we were having a Surprise Sunday Spa Day.

“Be ready at 8:45!” she said through our speakerphone.

The next morning, as we stood there in our robes, ogling the enormous, 6 nozzle showers, Julie explained that we were each signed up for a 1-hour massage and a pedicure. We all jumped, wiggled, smiled and squealed in excitement; what a wonderful Sunday this would be!

As we packed up our lockers, my mom stopped for a second, “We keep our underwear on, right?”

“Nope,” Julie replied.

“What?”

“What?”

“WHAT?”

Julie nodded as an answer: This massage would be sans chonies.

Now, this may not be a big deal to some, but I was a first timer, as in, never have I ever lie down on a table and let a stranger treat my muscles like a rubiks cube. So when I walked into the dimly lit room, knowing each step I took was more breezy than normal, it was safe to say I was a little nervous. Plus, thanks to my already anxious nature and unhinged imagination, I had fully convinced myself that I’d be assigned a burly man that just had his heart broken. He’d stand over me, whimpering, replaying everything that went wrong in his ill-fated romance. His strength would be at an all time low and he’d paw at my back like it was a couch cushion needing to be straightened. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, he’d sprint into the second stage of grief and start treating the knots in my shoulders like punching bags. “HOW DARE YOU ANDREA!” he’d say while twisting my spine in a direction it was unfamiliar with. And I’d be there, my head stuck in that open-faced pillow, trying to tell him what a mistake she had made, while also politely asking that he pop my shoulders back into place. All that being said, seeing Kendra was a huge relief.

“I’m going to step outside for a moment so you can disrobe and lie on your stomach under the sheet,” she said.

A few seconds later, when I dropped my robe on the floor, I audibly giggled like a child. I briefly considered yelling, “I’M NAKED!” but then I got nervous that I was moving too slow and that Kendra would open the door and show the entire lounge my butt. So I pulled the sheet over me as quickly as I could and slapped my face into the pillow like I was trying to win a no-hands pie-eating contest. Once, I was settled, Kendra knocked and reentered, and then suddenly it was go time.

She started at the nape of my neck, making counterclockwise circles like my skin was a mouse pad and she was making a masterpiece on Windows Paint. Then, from my shoulders, she began to push up through my neck to my head. She did this over and over in identical fashion, as if she was carving a path for all the stress to release. Unfortunately however, it didn’t simply dissolve into the eucalyptus air. I felt every ounce of stress, anxiety, and pent up cringes that were pumping through my muscles. She was like Moses, parting the red sea of awkwardness and all the people passing through were old memories. Like that time I split my pants in Kindergarten, or the stupid things I’ve said to the boys I liked, or every period I got from ages 13-16. There they all were; it was a slideshow of stress playing at its own funeral.

At some point during my walk through the awk, I realized that if my left butt cheek had eyes, it could now see the ceiling; she had begun to massage my leg and had adjusted the sheet accordingly.

“You can turn over now,” Kendra said after she finished the other leg.

Once flipped, I began to panic. All of the important parts were covered, that wasn’t a concern, but what the hell was I supposed to do with my arms?

Did I lay them at my side? Was that too morgue-ish?

Did fold my hands over my stomach? Was that too coffin-y?

How does anyone not look like a corpse at this point?

And do I keep my eyes open?

What if we make eye contact?

Will I have to say something?

What if I smile weird and she thinks I’m having a stroke?

Thankfully she was able to work through both arms and legs, completely unfazed by my likeness to a cadaver, and move to the top of the table to dig at the muscles just below my neck

Early on she found a knot on my left side and dug her fingers into it like she was kneading dough. Immediately after discovering this similarity, I stopped paying attention and dreamt about bread……Sourdough ❤

When I snapped back to reality she was working on a knot on my right side, worse than the first, and I suddenly understood what dirt must feel like when you stab a shovel into it. Then, as the knot continued to hold strong, I thought of that old Eggo waffle commercial where the kid digs his way to China. She was digging and digging until: HELLO SHANGHAI and I was certain I would never be able to move my arm again.

A few minutes later, she thanked me for my time and I reciprocated the gesture. She guided me down the hallway and as I approached my family, I tried to get ahold of what had just happened.

Rubix Cube. Mouse Pad. Moses……sourdough<3, Shanghai.

Massages, who knew?