amanda: I'm Amanda, I'll be working on you today. Is your massage a gift?
me: I actually won it during a fundraiser almost a year ago.
amanda: Oh, well congratulations! Have you had a massage before?
me: A few. Its been a while.
amanda: OK. Strip down to your comfort level and slip between these sheets. We'll start face down. See you in a second. [leaves...comes back] Is there anything in particular you want me to work on?
me: No, not really. I actually prefer a softer massage.
amanda: Sure. Something all over relaxing? OK.
From that short conversation, I got the massage I've always dreamed of. It seems its usually a massage therapist's natural tendency, if they even sense that you might have a knot, to work it out through whatever means necessary, whether you want them to or not. They're sadists. I put massage therapists on the same level as Steve Martin's orthodontist in Little Shop of Horrors. Really, I'm just looking for someone to rub my cold, dry, wintery skin with their warm, oily hands.
Amanda did just that.
And you know what else I loved? Amanda rubbed my cold, dry, wintery skin with her warm, oily hands without trying to befriend me. She didn't ask where I was from, or if I've been to Sorelle before, or how her pressure is. She especially didn't try to explain, as she was digging her finger tips or knuckles or elbow into my back, that it might hurt a little now, but if I give it a couple of days and drink a lot of water, I'm going to feel a million times better. (Lies.) Amanda rubbed in silence while I ecstatically drooled all over her face cradler thinger. Even when it was time to roll over, she instructed me to do so in a barely audible whisper.
OK, I didn't actually drool. But I could have, if I wasn't paying enough attention not to. Amanda's massage is that good. Moral of the story is, I just found my massage therapist. I'd go so far as to say she's my massage soul mate. Amanda, I love you.
Home Sweet Home
9 years ago
