The massage with the (un)happy finish
I went for a massage today. Those of you who follow me on Twitter (@mrsdubai) will have some inkling of what I’m about to write. Let’s just say, it wasn’t what I expected.
So the massage name had the word ‘Back’ in it. Being one who adores nothing more than having my back (feet and scalp) massaged, I read no further than that. A 75-minute back massage, I thought, what bliss – and booked at once.
And when I got to the spa, I thought it a little odd I had to fill out a form saying on what part of my body I’d like the therapist to focus. Upper back? Lower back? Shoulders?
So the massage starts and it’s bliss. I’m sinking into the massage bed like it’s made of feathers. My brain waves are switching to alpha and, I do believe, that for some time, I’m awake but not even thinking at all. 75 minutes of this. How often can I come?
And then she exposes a leg and starts working on my thigh. I’m one of those who thinks having your arms, legs, elbows, shins and knees massaged is a complete waste of time, but I’m relaxed enough to think: Okay, maybe “back” includes backs of the legs.
And after she’s done both legs she taps me on the shoulder and says, “khlease turn over” and I realise I’m not having the massage I thought I was.
So she starts on the tops of my legs and I’m already getting irritated because, honest to god, who goes to the spa for a shin massage? Am I missing something?
The worst is yet to come.
After she’s worked all the tension out of my shins and elbows, she covers up the limbs, whips down the top towel, exposing me to the waist, and starts on my tummy. And, as I’m lying there, a fixed smile on my face as I contemplate my nakedness and wonder what to do about it, her hands slide up and she’s massaging my boobs.
Yes, you read that right. She’s doing my boobs, and I’m half expecting her to say, “Madam, you not need khmassage; you need boob job. I give you number. My khousin…”
And, by then, all the goodness of the relaxation has gone and I’m tense as can be and I lie there rigid as a poker until she’s finished.
“Please be seated,” she says next, and I wonder what to do given I’m already lying down. She tugs my arms and it becomes apparent she wants me to sit up and put my arms behind my back. The towel falls down and, by then, I’m freezing cold as the a/c’s on the “winter ski resort” setting and she starts pulling me through a series of Thai-massage stretches, my bare boobs pointing to the ceiling.
“Enough!” I yelp as joints click and muscles squeal. “Stop!” and, finally, she quits.
“The oil is good for your skin,” she says as she leaves the room. “Leave it on for at least two hours.”
She says that, but what I hear is: “Why not wipe your oily arms all over your luscious leather handbag, gunk up your jewellery with it and slide your oily arms all over the cream suede interior of your hot car?” so, as soon as she leaves the room, I grab a towel, soak it under the tap, and frantically wipe off as much as I can.
In future I’ll be sticking with the nail-bar foot-rub. The only risk with that is oily flip-flops and a bit of extra cuticle care.