The horror of massage
Yes, I realise to the majority of people that is rather a bizarre take on a much-loved pastime. I do love massage – there’s something very sensual about it, and it’s pure hedonistic pleasure. I love having my tense muscles relaxed, and I love the atmosphere of treatment rooms. However, for me it’s always tainted slightly by crippling embarrassment; being virtually naked in front of strangers, depending of course on your profession or personal tastes, is usually reserved for nightmares.
I mention this today because I had a full body and face massage yesterday at my local salon in Crystal Palace. It was superb, but I found it extremely hard to relax for the first twenty or so minutes because my brain refused to let me. Was my very lovely therapist cringeing with horror every time she kneaded a bit of flabby skin? Had she noticed some stubble? Did my feet smell? You get the picture. This was despite constant reminders to myself that she was being paid quite a lot of money to pummel me, and in any case she must have massaged far fatter, hairier, smellier and generally less pleasant people.
Fortunately, the therapist and I were able to bond over a mutual love of tattoos – I have a large, rather beautiful one on my back that she enjoyed looking at – and that made me a lot less self-conscious. By the time my appointment was over my whole body felt amazing, and I plan on going back once my bank balance allows. Levels of insecurity have reached ridiculous levels though when I feel the need to lose weight and remove every strand of body hair before going for a massage…