I've been feeling rubbish recently. Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish. Tooth ache, back ache, arm ache, foot ache, stomach ache. You name it. If there's an ache to be had, then I've had it. I'm not sure if it's the fact that Summer is almost over and my body is, therefore, grieving, or the fact that my husband is off on a work trip for 30 days in just three days time (more on that over the next month I'm sure). But whatever it is, I seem to have been sent into a downward spiral and I could really do with a pick-me up.
A couple of days ago, in the midst of my general moaning and wailing, I remembered that I actually had, in my possession, a voucher for an hour's full-body massage, bought for me by my lovely husband, four whole months ago as a birthday present.
Now I'm not quite sure why I hadn't yet got round to relinquishing the voucher, apart from the fact that...
I NEVER BLOODY HAVE A SPARE SECOND.
Can you tell my toothache hasn't quite subsided? (I actually have an emergency appointment booked in one hour's time, so please bear with me).
But desperate times and all that....
So off I limped whilst husband stayed at home to look after the mini terrorists.
The thing is, however much a massage is needed, or coveted, it's never really that relaxing is it?
I mean, as soon as you've settled down on the couch, hoping beyond hope that the therapist, poor love, won't adjust the blanket that you've carefully positioned to hide the over-stretched, definitely-seen-better-days g-string that you were determined to remember not to wear, but forgot anyway and the 'I've-had-two-children' wobbly bits, so inexpertly held-together by said g-string, do you then remember that you've also forgotten to shave your legs, or any other part of your body for that matter and each time she runs her hands up and down your legs, you flinch because not only are you worried for her safety (the bristles are fairly sharp), but it isn't all that comfortable for you either.
Of course, I'm not saying that this was what happened (ahem)...just that that's what normally happens in a massage. Isn't it?
And then after you've got over the embarrassment of wobbly bits and needle-like leg hairs, the temperature of the room, which you assured the therapist, only a moment ago was 'just right', suddenly becomes a bit too cold and all you can think about is that freezing draft of air that's making your feet feel as though they might just drop off.
But then when the therapist asks if everything's 'alright?', you still say 'yes', because, well, something else becomes even more distracting, like the fact that she's pumelling the one spot you didn't want her to touch and she's doing it with such aplomb that you swear she knows you're in pain and she's secretly paying you back for the leg hairs and you want to tell her to stop, but you're embarrassed because you told her you liked it 'firm', when at this precise moment, you'd like it anything but firm.
But then she moves from the now extremely tender point you didn't want her to touch and it's actually beginning to feel ok, possibly even rather relaxing. And the sound of the waves and the flickering of the candles and the smell of the lavender aren't even remotely annoying and you have a feeling that you might even drift off to sleep...
Oh no. Surely not. Please no. But you can feel it coming. Your heartrate quickens in panic. And your butt cheeks become so desperately tense in an attempt to stop the one thing that you were dreading.
Yes, I said it. A fart. And it's coming. And you know if it does you might as well put your clothes straight back on and walk out because the embarrassment will be too much for your poor shame-faced self to handle. But she seems to be pumelling in just the wrong place and you so desperately try to hold it in, but all your attempts are futile. Of course it serves you right for having had that take away curry the night before, but you didn't think about the consequences as you were tucking into your chicken masala and onion bhaji.
But there isn't any noise.
Maybe it didn't happen after all.
But then you realise, with horror, that it did.
And you realise that if you know it did, then she knows it did too.
But she's continuing to massage and some tiny part of your brain thinks that maybe you should say something. It's not so much a case of there being an elephant in the room, more like there's an elephant in the room and he's just left a huge pile of dung in the corner.
Like I said, this wasn't my massage. Heaven forbid...
And any attempts to rescue your dignity are further scuppered when you're asked to turn over and you fear that one look at your poor, 'I-once-breast-fed-my-children-for-quite-a-long-time' boobs will put the therapist off having children for life.
And then the hour is finished. And part of you wishes that it could have gone on just a wee while longer, but part of you is ready to dash home just as quickly as your poor bristly legs can carry you.
And that's all I'm saying on the subject of massages.
I think I will just have to look for a pick-me up elsewhere. In the meantime, I'm just off to the dentist.
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