I get to have a massage today.

I get to have a massage once a month.  It comes with Poor Kyle’s insurance, so it’s free, essentially (we get reimbursed).

I never thought I would be the sort of person who would get regular massages.  Oh, sure, I fully expected to be a yuppie who vacationed on Martha’s Vineyard or Fire Island; a yuppie whose daily trips to the market procured the freshest ingredients for each night’s dinner; a yuppie who might even own a yacht (or at least have friends who own yachts).  But even in my craziest imaginings, I never planned on having monthly massages.

I’m not sure why.  It could be one of several reasons—first, I’m not fond of being touched by anyone other than Poor Kyle.  I’m just not that kind of girl. (This probably has to do with the fact that I don’t like people in general, and I’m not a nice person, and I am therefore suspicious of anyone who is or claims to be.  I can’t say for sure—probably a shrink could shed some light on the matter.)  Secondly, I have issues with deserving my monthly massages.  There are lots of people in the world who deserve regular massages more than I do.  My mom comes to mind—she works so hard, and really digs a good back rub.  I wish her insurance would cover a monthly massage.

Despite the odds against my masseuse’s favour, I really have come to enjoy these hour-long relaxation fests.  The health benefits are amazing, to be sure.  My “massage lady” has a room in her house dedicated to her business, and the mere act of crossing the threshold is soothing.  She’s painted the room in a serene blue-gray tone that reminds me of a seaside village (generally calm and happy places, those seaside villages); she has hidden speakers, from whence mellow music quietly chims, serenading me into a state of chi (I don’t even know what a chi is…); and directly in front of the massage table is a warm electric fireplace, which really just floats my boat.

I may not look as lovely as this lady when I’m getting my massage, but I assure you: I feel every bit as good as she is portrayed.

Some days I walk into my massage lady’s house feeling beaten and downtrodden,  but I always leave rejuvenated.  That’s how you know you have a good massage lady, I think.  {Not that I would know.  I’ve only had one regular massage lady in my life.}

She uses essential oils and organic, homemade lotion on my skin (heck, she probably buys it at Wal*Mart™; but it could be a pile of poo, and I would bathe in it, if my massage lady told me to).  She starts out on my feet, while asking a few simple questions about how life has been since last we met.  By the time she’s proceeded to my tender little calves, though, I can no longer converse, on account of I’ve zoned out completely.

I’m pretty sure I leave behind a puddle of slobber on her carpet beneath the head-hole of the table every month.  Sorry, massage lady—didn’t mean to drool.

Even my marriage is uplifted by my monthly massages:  If Poor Kyle is in a grouchy mood all month long and refuses to rub my left shoulder (which suffers from chronic soreness), I don’t get mad: I get a massage.  Problem solved.

Only, I can’t figure out why Poor Kyle won’t get his own monthly massages.  Insurance would cover his, too, but he just…lets that money go to waste.  Every month, like clockwork, he fails to get himself a decent back rub.

Maybe he’s ticklish…  I only married him—I don’t claim to understand his brain.  Who knows?

Oh, and p.s.:

I’m pretty sure my nostrils aren’t symmetrical.  Just so you know.

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