Massage Therapy?

I threw my back out the other day and could hardly stand up straight. It’s something I do about 2 to 3 times a year then suffer through a week or so long recovery. It’s always the same spot along my spine, always about the same amount of pain, and it nearly always takes the same amount of time to recover. “You should stretch more often mister,” my wife Linda will tell me. And she’s right, I should, but like most men the pain associated with stretching is worse than anything my back can throw at me in the course of a week. “Besides,” I think, “It really doesn’t hurt that much the first day or two. And by the last couple of days, I’m pretty much better. So, really, that only leaves me 3 days of real agony.” And then I hobble off to the couch where I sit propped up by a pillow or two, one leg outstretched and try my best to find a comfortable position where Linda and I might watch a show before bed.

A few years ago we were visiting family in Utah when my back went out. I blamed it on the long drive and might have mentioned my pain a few hundred times. And I might have said it in front of enough people that my mother-in-law decided on an early birthday present. “Christian, I know your birthday isn’t for a few months but I think I’ll give you this years gift a bit early,” she said.

“Oh, I couldn’t accept that,” I complained. “It just wouldn’t seem right.”

She pressed on, though. “I thought I’d treat you to a massage.” Maybe I’d whined a bit too much about but my back, really gone on about it to the point my in-laws didn’t know how else to shut me up, but at the mention of massage my head spun and I forgot about anything else.

“Well,. . . if you insist.”

“I do. Go. Now. I’ll call ahead and have it arranged.”

I’d never had a massage before and wasn’t sure what to expect. After checking in with the receptionist, I was led back to a dimly lit room where it was suggested I remove my clothing, dress in a heavy cotton robe, then wait in a room they referred to as the “meditation” room. This was a room filled with wicker furniture and a single coffee table that had one of those Zen sand gardens. The ones filled with powder white sand and a little rake and a big rock glued down at one end. Apparently raking patterns in a tiny sand pile helps some people relax but this was my first time sitting in a public room dressed in nothing but a robe and I was too worried the flimsy tie might come undone. I think the knot in my neck actually cinched up a bit while I waited. “Should I cross my legs,” I wondered, “or recline a bit and act casual.”

When the masseuse arrived to invite me back to my private massage room I noticed she was petite and had long blond hair. She was dressed in black and wore small black satin slippers that padded as I followed her down the hall. She spoke in whispers and mentioned her name was Brittany, I think. I also noticed she was pregnant. Very pregnant.

The actual massage room was so dimply lit I could hardly see the table where I was asked to lay between two sheets. There was some new age music playing in the background and a scented candle, coconut as I remember. Brittany went right to work and within a few minutes I slipped into a relaxed sleep. Almost. I say almost because just above the background noise of the music and the sound of Brittany’s hands as they worked the knot in my lower back, I heard a small but distinct ‘pfffffttttt’. “Did I just hear what I think I heard,” I wondered. And then, over the smell of coconut came confirmation.

Brittany sensed the proof too and whispered, “Excuse me,” but I just couldn’t get past the moment.