4/8/08 The Addicting Properties of Kitties and Chamomile

Guess what loyal Quirky reader(s)! I have a treat for you! A super duper awesome treat of utmost excellence! I'm very excited. You should be very excited too. I'm not telling you what it is though! It's a surprise! You'll just have to wait.

So anyway, yesterday I had a most fabulous massage. My dear sweet ever-lovin' hubby got me a gift certificate for an aromatherapy massage for last year's anniversary, and I saved it all last year for a special occasion. First I was going to go for my birthday, and then it was for after finals, and then it was going to be a great Christmas thing, and then it was going to be nice for around Valentines, and then this year's anniversary rolled around and I realized that I better just use the thing before it expires. So the special occasion ended up being the first opening they had before the card became worthless. But who cares? I'm getting a massage!

Anyway, I get to the Fancy-schmancy Salon and Spa, which is very nice by the way, and I walk in the door and tell the woman that I have an appointment. And she says, "Oh, for your hair?" (which was not correct, but got me wondering what my hair could possibly look like that she would immediately assume that I needed a hair appointment. Of course, I AM overdue for a haircut, but I didn't think it was that bad. And even if it was, I definitely wouldn't get it cut here in fancy-schmancy salon where they would charge me something like $75 per strand cut. I'm a SuperCuts kind of girl...which may be back to why she thought I was here for my hair).

Anyway, I said no, I was here for a massage, and she said something like, "oh of course!" and whisked me back to a lovely little dimly lit waiting room with ocean noises and super cushy chairs in soothing colors. And she asked me if she could get me something to drink, and I (determined to enjoy every second) was like, sure, I'll have some water. So I sat in my fancy-schmancy chair and drank my fancy-schmancy water and admired the fancy-schmancy fountain tinkling in the corner while I tried to relax. I say tried because the combination of the water and the fountain really really made me have to use the bathroom. Except I was supposed to wait for my masseuse to come get me, and I was afraid that if I left to go in search of the bathroom, I'd miss her. So I sat there and jiggled my leg in the dark while the tinkling of fountain water trickling rhythmically over rocks slowly drove me insane. Luckily my masseuse arrived after only a few minutes, thus saving me from having to explain why there was a puddle in the corner. And because she was an observant sort (possibly tipped off by the fact that I was doing the same dance little kids do when they have to go) she let me use the bathroom before we got down to business.

You're supposed to strip down to your "level of comfort" for the massage, which I took to mean down to my undies. I'm not really a modest person (you're shocked aren't you) so lounging in my underwear while a stranger rubs my back doesn't really bother me. (I'd strip down and run around the parking lot if it meant that someone would spend the next hour working these kinks out of my neck and shoulders). What was a little embarrassing was that I had forgotten about the massage when I was getting dressed that morning, so I was shocked to find that I was wearing the underwear with the fluffy pink kitties all over them. (Oh yes, massage lady- I'm really 8 years old). Nothing like pretending to be all suave and sophisticated while wearing fluffy pink kitties. I just kept telling myself that my masseuse was a professional and she'd probably seen it all-including grown women wearing kitty underwear.

I chose orange citrus chamomile for my aromatherapy, which was supposed to soothe while energizing. (Seems to be a contradiction in terms, doesn't it?) I thought so, but I wasn't going to say anything because I'm getting a massage! Oh and what a massage is was too! It was fabulous. She worked on my back, she worked on my neck, she worked on my shoulders. I told her I was floating above the table. She worked on my thighs, and my calves and my feet. I told her she was my best friend. She worked on my arms, and scalp and face. I asked her to come live at my house. And when she dug in to the tight muscles where I apparently store my tension, I offered her one of my kidneys. Anything she wanted as long as she kept working on that knot of muscle. When she finished, I couldn't feel anything at all. It was like I had turned to jelly. I had no bones, I had no muscles, and really, I was fine with that. Who needs bones and muscles when you're laying on a table under the toasty warm blanket with the ocean noises? I sincerely hope that Heaven is like this. Unfortunately, all good massages must come to an end, and eventually she made me get up and put my clothes back on. Still, the whole way home, I was so relaxed that I made up a little song about being mellow like jell-o on a cello. (I'm not sure what that means, but it seemed to be a pretty apt description at the time).

Now I'm hooked. I wake up and I long for a massage. I go to bed and dream about getting another one. It's like they drugged me with citrus and chamomile. I'm an addict and I don't care! I'm already trying to figure out when I can get my next fix.

But maybe in something other than the fluffy pink kitties next time.