Bone Crushing. That’s
not usually the phrase I think of when I consider getting a massage. But that is exactly what came to mind after
my first minute on the table at the hands of Helga the Horrible.
I had an about-to-expire Groupon for a half-price massage at
a spa I’d been to a few times in the past.
The gal I knew was no longer there so I was given luck of the draw. Spas
are designed to be peaceful and relaxing, with soft-spoken young ladies who
take you back to the relaxation area and serve you cucumber water while you
wait to be pampered with a massage or facial.
They aren’t cheap either, so I rarely treat myself. But a 1 hour massage for $30 is hard to beat,
and I figured they had to have decent “massagers” or they wouldn’t still be in
business.I sat relaxing with my flavored water for only a few minutes when a large, muscled, plain looking woman entered the room and softly called my name. I stood and smiled tentatively, then the smile faded as I noticed the large teeth her smile revealed. Suddenly I felt like Little Red Riding Hood staring at the jaws of the Big Bad Wolf.
She led me to the room to get ready and slipped out, closing the door quietly behind her. As I undressed and slid onto the table, in between nice warm blankets and a warming table, I tried to quell my growing uneasiness. The strange music playing not softly enough through the speakers didn’t help. I’m used to those nature sounds of wind and water; the sound of strange voices and instruments emitting foreign sounds was just not conducive to quiet nerves.
Helga knocked on the door and I told her I was ready. I was face down, trying to breathe slowly, listening to her move about the room. Then I felt the first assault. Hands moved up my neck, almost choking off my air and threatening to relocate my jaw. Bones were seemingly crushed, muscles relocated; my nerves quivered inside their sheaths, terrified they were next. Helga was very thorough; no eligible part of my body was left untouched. She rubbed the polish off my nails and the freckles off my arms. My hair looked like an army of Barbies in their highest heels had romped through it. My legs felt as if they’d been on the rack of torture. I couldn’t believe my hips were still in their sockets. My scar tissue at the knee was given a beating, my 37 year old scar repositioned down the leg. The callouses on my feet retreated in full surrender under Helga’s tank-hands that cleared away any knots, kinks or spasms. Her entire arm steamrolled my back over and over. How could my flesh be made to move around so, I thought to myself, gritting my teeth after the second time I asked her to please not massage so “firmly.” She gave special attention to my buttocks, which were covered by a sheet thank goodness, and which were experiencing their first massage ever. Praise God in heaven I didn’t get her for my facial !!!
However, in all fairness I must admit that after all was said and done, when I was alone in the room again, shakily dressing and wondering how I could tame my hair for the walk through the salon, I did feel loosened up…
