Actually, it IS Rocket Science



Hands on (pt 1)

I’m 0-3 when it  comes to massages.  It’s as if I’m a magnet for the world’s worst stories of what goes on in those mysteriously quiet low-lit rooms with unexplained constant fountains and cucumber-flavored water.  I used to believe it was all my own fault, but I’ve actually spent time trying to understand these situations and realizing a strong argument for how each one was it’s own degree of failure, and I can really only be held accountable for one, maybe.

Firstly, I grew up a tomboy.  I preferred jeans over skirts, black over pink, and when the time came, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles over the ever-elusive Barbie.  I mean, hardcore.  I still have TMNT figurines pushed away in my old room at my parent’s house. It fueled my interest in boys and gave me the corner market when playing with them because I could always be April O’Neil and no one would ever argue.  I think that it was also a precursor to my attitude of “Cut the shit” when it came to other things growing up, more specifically in this case with holistic treatments as I got older and was offered a “day of beauty” as a Christmas present for myself and my older sister, who was wise enough to pounce on the opportunity, knowing full-well what spa menu items she’d be partaking in.  The experience was completely alien to me, however, as I sat there and wondered about the difference between aromatherapy and reiki.  Thank god I didn’t opt for cupping or else this post would be more about dealing with much greater demons of my past.

My sister, who was smarter than I, in this department especially, went in for something like a tissue massage and pedicure while I was encouraged by some sadist to undergo some new-age shit I still don’t know the name for with a “curative” facial to follow.  All I remember is lying face up on a sticky doctor’s bed with that infuriating wax paper that moved and crackled every time someone pushed or pulled your body.  The girl rolled my legs out like she was trying to make a play-doh snake and prodded my arms like there were a number of ball bearings stuck in there she was trying to push out.  The best part came when I KID YOU NOT, I opened my eyes at one point to see this hippy literally circling her hands vigorously over my body without touching me.  Yeah.  Like she was trying to get the power of Christ to compel me.  I wasn’t about to sit up and go all Linda Blair on her, but I wanted out, immediately.  I mumbled something like, “I think I feel much better now,” which was greeted with a snake-y “SSSSSSSHHHHH!!!!” and I felt like I had failed my one task of remaining silent so she could exorcise whatever unspoken evil from my body I didn’t know about.  I was eventually asked to sit up, which I did while feeling no different, just embarrassed for the both of us, and escorted into the facial room where whatever shit they put on my face did nothing else but make me break out for an entire week just before senior photos.  I walked out looking like I had been licked by a thousand wart-tongued St. Bernards.

Thanks, Day Spa.  Thanks a lot.

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  1. Hands on, pt 2 « Actually, it IS Rocket Science pingbacked on 6 years, 3 months ago

Comments

  1. * perpetualnervousness says:

    I think that’s called “reiki”, or something – where they wave their hands around but don’t touch you. It’s supposed to transfer healing energy to you, although it mostly transfers money to the reiki person, from what I’ve heard.

    And you totally remind me of April O’Neil. But cooler.

    | Reply Posted 6 years, 3 months ago
  2. * Sula says:

    I love you 🙂

    | Reply Posted 6 years, 3 months ago


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