Instant Massaging

WHOO.

What a summer, man. I am spent. The temperature often climbed to levels that rival “slightly uncomfortable,” on several occasions I had to decide which of two social barbeques to attend, and the water, MY GOD, the water in some of these pools. I often found myself having to use my legs to keep my head above water. Is there no rest for the weary? Must the summer season be the most grueling, stressful, and out-and-out exhausting of all the seasons? I can’t take it anymore. I need fall to get here now. And if fall isn’t available, I’ll settle for his dorky, more preppy older brother, autumn. If there was only a way to relax after the grind that is June, July, and August. What’s that?

Free massage? Sure!!

Last year, Katie became the recipient of three, count ‘em, three massage gift certificates at a local spa that’s connected to one of our area’s fancy hotels. The gift came as a “mea culpa” from the spa, who had offered less-than-stellar service at a function Katie hosted there. Sometimes it’s a damn good idea to lodge a complaint. Anyway, each gift certificate carried a shelf life of exactly one year. Surely, we could find time in a twelve month time frame to kick back every now and then with soft lighting, nature sounds, and applied muscular pressure, right? Not exactly. After 11 of those 12 had expired, we realized we were now in a dire use ‘em or lose ‘em situation.

And this, kids, is how August became National Massage Month.

While Katie enjoyed the first one a few weeks back, we decided to use the last two this past weekend – you know, to put the stresses of uh, summer vacation, behind us. And as you can guess with any activity that involves a tall guy lying on a short bed, hilarity ensued.

For those who haven’t experiences a pro massage, let me assuage your fears and let you know how it goes down. After checking in, you are banished to a locker room to change into a Spa Brand signature bathrobe. You’ll notice on the tag that it reads, “One Size Fits Most.” (For the record, that’s just a bathrobe company being lazy. But can you really blame them? For a living, they manufacture apparel that you are supposed to relax in. Eh.) Once changed and in sandals, you are to go sit in a waiting room that plays earthy music and has comfy chairs and has peaceful magazines to read. My personal favorite is “Placid Wheat in the Wind.” (Hey, who left this copy of Volcano Eruptions Quarterly in here? Kids these days.)

When the massage is free, you don’t get to be choosy. That’s why when the spa attendant greeted me, she asked if I would be having a Swedish massage today, I had to say yes. I don’t know what the other nationalities charge. Those pesky Bulgarians may have special robot fingers and charge more than the free gift certificate would cover. Now to my knowledge, a Swedish massage is your standard, textbook massage. It requires rubbing with moderate pressure, no one’s walking around on your back, there’s an occasional circular motion that’s thrown in with the back-and-forth, and that’s all there is to it. So I wonder: how did the Swedes lay claim to “Standard Massage Technique?” They basically have called shotgun on the entire industry. But I can’t blame them. The Scandinavian leisure industry is freakin’ cut-throat. The Norwegians have the market cornered on cruises, and to a lesser extent, pillaging. The Danes are still crying “scoreboard” after their coup of Hamlet back in 1602.

(The Fins, on the other hand, totally missed the boat on this. Which is what makes them the whipping boy of Scandinavia. Hey, maybe you guys can invent some special dart-throwing technique or champion competitve chair sitting. Good luck, Jaarko.)