When beer gets replaced with beauty.. or at least the attempt

You might have noticed a change in my header. As I get a little older and barely wiser, I find I have less time and patience for beer and my waistline could use a break for the good, imported stuff. I'm sure if I could suffer canned beer, my waistline wouldn't be growing, but we've established that unless I am on water AND on a boat (neither alone), I am far above canned beer.

With less money spent on fine dining and upscale beer (who do I think I am? Omarosa?), I have more left for better things in life like pampering. At my age, no kids=pedicures, massages, waxings and other general maintenance necessities.

After a tripled workload and the most stressful week of my adult life, I made an appointment a full week in advance so that I could get in to see THE masseur of choice. If you're a spa princess, you know who I mean. I am trying to make massages a habit but had never been to The Man, so you might imagine my anticipation as I waited for Saturday to approach.

I show up to the spa with the glee of a little kid on Christmas morning, wrap myself in a luxuriously fluffy white robe and bounce my crossed leg in anticipation as I wait for The Masseur of Choice to take me to his room. Eeeeee!!!!

Our consultation was quick and went well. He was very knowledgeable. So knowledgeable, in fact, that I might have left out some details about where my tension was because he is The Masseur.. he'll figure it out! He asks me to pick out some scents and I tell him I don't really care, I trust his judgment, and let's get to it! WOO HOOOOOOO!

I am naked (tee hee) underneath the soft, 1,000 count massage sheet. The Masseur is mixing up his magical potions with this maggggggical hands and ohhhhhh, here he comes. First touch and my eyes open wide up in astonishment. MAGICAL HANDS, I tell you. Ohhh, and to be honest, it was all quite professional, but with a touch like his, I felt like I was cheating on my Manly Man. Keep it up, keep it up.... why didn't I come to you before?!

That was just the warm up though.

You know how the first time you visit the spa, you fill out a form indicating where you hold tension, whether you have injuries, whether you like light, moderate or deep pressure, and what you like least about massages (is there really an answer for this last question other than 'it ended?')? I can't remember ever filling one out at this particular place, but as The Masseur started to get past the warm up and really get into the thick of things, I found myself wondering if maybe somewhere in the past I had crossed off "moderate pressure" and replaced it with "lethal, bone crushing, joint-snapping pressure." Still, he must know what he's doing. He is The Masseur!

As he starts 'working' on my left shoulder joint, he tells me the reason he had me smell four different oil vials. Some scents are associated with bad memories; say, had I been bitten by a Doberman (I have.. different story, right in the ass cheek, too) next to a rose bush, I'd dislike the smell of roses. Sensical enough. As he illustrated his in depth knowledge of scents, their effect on pheromones and neuron paths, I stop hearing his words and start hearing "waaaa waaaa wa wa wa" as they drown out. In retrospect, maybe that was me passing out a little bit.

PAIN. And I mean PAINNNN, as in pain reserved for four letter words, teeth biting into the bottom lip, furrowed brows, and prayers to the Virgin Mary to make it stop pain. Why was he trying to rip my arm off the shoulder like you would if you wanted the drumstick on a rotisserie chicken? I told him my scapula hurt, so surely doing this to the joint meant it would alleviate the path of knots in my shoulder blade?

He continues to tell me about scents associated to bad memories and all I could think-- aside from four letter words while biting my lip, furrowing my brow while grimacing in pain and saying a little prayer to the Virgin Mary-- was that I'd never be able to smell the Egyptian flower oil he was using ever, ever again because I was in the process of forming my very first negative memory/scent association and he was the cause of it.

After what felt like 3o solid minutes, he left what was still attached of my arm to my shoulder and moved to the shin. THANK YOU VIRGIN MARY, BABY JESUS and anyone else who I may have asked favors of.

He starts kneading my shin bone-- my SHIN BONE-- with the same excruciating kneading. There are no knots in my shin bone. None, I promise! Back away from the shin bone!

He then flipped me over where he did a few wonderful things, but this is the whole story: 60 solid minutes with THE MASSEUR and I left with maybe one or two fewer knots, but I had a dangling arm, felt like a Hummer had just tanked me over at drive-by shooting speed, and a few nice smacks to the back (not backside, just back). He did compliment me on how my breathing improved from beginning to end. I didn't think he'd appreciate me telling him that my lamaz-type breathing, along with the grimace, was my only coping mechanism against his vice grips. Hell yes I started breathing well; it was either that or run out of the massage room in panties and no one needs to see all that. It's a place for enjoyment, peace and relaxation, not frightening experiences.

Then it was over. SWEET JESUS, over!

I now have an answer for that question on the form that asks what I like least about massages: wishing I were getting a filling at the dentist's office, jumping out of a plane, bailing hay, chopping wood... doing ANYTHING other than enduring torture. Correct that: PAYING to endure torture.

A few days later, the bruises are subsiding along my shoulder and shin, but the memory of Saturday haunts me, as does the scent of that dang oil he talked me into buying.

Pamperees beware: beauty hurts like hell.