January 9, 2015 -- The Massage

I was looking forward to my Ayurveda Massage. My only massage before this one was a wonderful experience at a lovely spa in St. John’s, Newfoundland with my daughter.  We were given fluffy terry robes, lemon water, and tranquil, meditating music played softly in the background.  The faint scent of some essential oil in the air was intoxicating and soothing….. Back to reality –

When Rob returned from HIS massage, I told you he was all greasy.  He told me only that he was given a diaperish thing to put on, but absolutely nothing more about the massage, which, if his experience was anything like mine, only meant that he dragged the whole memory of it into his cave, never to be talked about again.

My 8 o’clock appointment was postponed to 10 a.m. because my masseuse was stuck somewhere on a bus.  At 10, I presented myself, and followed her up to the top floor, through a door with a hanging sign which read, “Treatment in Progress.  Do not enter.”   She did not lock the door behind us.

I stood around on one foot then the other, sucking my teeth, while the masseuse, Saji, prepared her surroundings -- turned on the hot plate, put out towels, oil , iPod and then decked herself out in an oilcloth (this should have triggered a warning) apron.  Finally, she turned to me and said, “Take off your clothes.”

I think I squawked, “Right here?  Now?  All of them?” Yes, she nodded.

I thought, OK!  I am not a modest person, so how hard can this be?  I carefully took off my clothes, one by one, as she stood one foot away and continued to stare at me.  Lordy!  When I got to the underpants – “These too?” and she shook her head NO, I nearly wept with gratitude.  

“Sit here,” Saji indicated a backless bench and when I perched on it, she drizzled some dark oil on me and began a very thorough breast exam.  And arms, hands, feet, legs, back, belly, face and hair.  And if I weren’t already wretched enough, she peeled my undies down to bikini size, under my flubber .  Oh brother!

After 5 hours – I mean minutes – she told me, “Get on the table.”  I was a greased pig by that time, right down to my toes but I shussed my way over to the table and then tried to climb up onto the polished wooden surface.  I couldn’t get a grip with either oiled hand, nor purchase with the knees either which were slithering right and left.  Finally just slopped down in a heap and Saji had to sort out what was arms, what was legs.  On my back. With eyes tightly closed in an attempt to keep the stinging oil out of them.  Not working… Towel!  Quick!! My eyes are burning!

Massage Table

Massage Table

Well, she was not quick.  She slowly wiped off  her hands, (and then possibly went for a coffee) and then gave me a cloth for my eyes and forehead.  She was totally unfazed by this.
I knew that the oil Saji was using was very dark as I had seen her pouring it before I lost my sight.  Hoping for patchouli or sandlewood, what I got instead was an unpleasant mixture of coal tar and Lysol disinfectant.  Laid out as I was, blind and practically naked on the hard wooden table, I was a helpless cadaver.

Time for Saji to really go to work.  She turned on her music, not tranquil at all but a lively folk tune for guitar and zither - poured a cup of warm oil onto me, and then began The Washer Woman’s Lament on my body - top to bottom, again and again and again  - with the heels of her hands as though hoping to rid me of some evil spirit.  Every so often, I had to say, “Don’t do THAT”, when she was whacking my head all over with the ball of her hand,  or thrubbing my upper arm where I hurt it in a fall, or when she bent all my arthritic fingers double and then tried to crack the knuckles.. 

Then I had to turn over.  No mean feat,  let me tell you.  I was a hideous, greasy flounder.  Same routine on the back… and then I was done.  Now she wanted me to simply get off the table.  A mud wrestler climbing out of the pit.

She had me “rest” (how? I ask you), still naked , back on my backless bench, while she slowly folded up her towels, turned off the iPod, put away the oils, and then laboriously scrubbed down the table, once, then again before handing me my pile of clothes.  “Put them on.”  This gal had a real gift for the gab.

BUT I’M ALL GREASY, I squealed.   She gave me a towel to rub some of it off.  Dressed, I slithered back to my room.  I see that the black oil has toned down my pesky blond hi-lights to an ashy gray.  Hey, who doesn’t love a massage?