My brother gave me a gift card for my birthday entitling me
to a session at Massage Envy. I’d seen the building: lots of windows and shades
made it seem mysterious, but maybe they were just keeping the sun out. Some of
the most glamorous spas are located in the vast and gorgeous West, where the
desert takes its toll. This one is in a shopping center near my home in Ohio.
Massages were nothing new to most of my friends, who had always
told me I would love the experience. I didn’t know if I’d love it or not. Was I
supposed to get naked? In a salon where I got my eyebrows waxed, I waited for
my appointments in a spa environment. On Saturdays, especially, it was common
to see bridal parties in their white terry robes having a day of beauty before
the wedding. They were always young and beautiful. Let’s just say that I’m in a
different place and well accustomed to a daily routine of trying to disguise my
flaws.
I have wrinkles. My belly isn’t tight. My legs are all
freckled from years in the sun. Yes, such changes come with age, but all of a
sudden somebody I hadn’t met was going to know those things. Maybe the Kardashians
can just throw their clothes off and relax, but could I?
In some circles, massage
is a shady word. That’s a shame, but I did think about it before I made my
appointment. Would any of the touching be too close for comfort? Many people wouldn’t
worry about such things, but after all these years I’m sure I represent the
ones who would.
When I arrived, I filled out a questionnaire. My lack of
experience prevented me from answering some of the questions, e.g., what kind
of massage did I want. There was a list of body areas on the form so that I could
indicate which ones were all right to include in the massage. One was gluteus. Who goes around saying “gluteus”?
I wasn’t positive I knew what it was. That’s hard for a writer to admit, but at
least I was right. The girl at the counter confirmed that it was my butt.
After the questionnaire and a little spiel about what to
expect, I was shown to the inner sanctum of the spa. If you haven’t been, a spa
environment is hushed. Soft music plays in the background. The lights are low. People
use their indoor voices. Maybe you remember the Seinfeld episode about the “low
talker,” the woman who practically whispered her every sentence. In a spa,
everybody talks that way. The whole idea is for customers to relax. Even the rooms
are named to soothe. While I was waiting in the Tranquility Room, I silenced my
phone in case an actual call might come through.
The massage took place in a small room with a heated table
made up like a bed. I undressed to my undies and lay down under the covers to wait
for Jen, my massage therapist. Some people like it quiet during a massage, but
I knew that I would feel better if she explained what she was doing. I found
out I was having a Swedish massage, and because it was my first time, Jen applied
a light-to-medium touch. The light in the room was dimmed, and that helped my
anxiety about my body.
From that point, I did relax. I realized that a skilled professional
was taking the tension knots out of my back, improving my circulation, and
helping me to leave my Type A personality behind for an hour. Anyone who can do
those things—especially that last one--deserves high praise.
The second half of my massage, the part that took place
after I understood the process, was very quiet. I no longer felt the need to
talk. I left the spa relaxed. I didn’t feel like I would melt into a puddle,
but maybe next time, now that I know what it’s all about.
