As my hand beat against the masseur's man breasts while he whacked my forearm back and forth, I realized this was not how I had intended to spend my precious hour of free time.
Most mothers know the dilemma - you have an unexpected hour of childcare-covered time...what to do? Most days would find me at the dry cleaner, Trader Joe's, Target or even — heaven forbid — Peet's, not reading the paper while sipping a latte but at least treating myself to a full pound of the best coffee and free cup of joe to go. But Friday I decided to take advantage of a gift certificate given to me last Mother's Day for a free massage. Childcare nor time had been forthcoming, so the certificate languished in a pile of ValCo coupons for discount chicken, airport limo deals and maids sure to make your home merrier. But not that day. That day I would finally unleash the full power of that little piece of paper, sure to entitle me to an hour of soothing, lavender-scented relaxation, replete with the sounds of nature softly emitting from a tasteful CD player.
I walked in to the spa to see a man boy who was certainly a doppelganger for Jonah Hill, though with slightly more heft and slightly less charm. I smiled with an "oh, good for you" look as I noted Jonah Hill 2's too-tight but stylish shirt and obviously product-laden hair. As I looked both left and right for Svetlana, the owner of the spa and of certain magical masseuse hands, I heard my name being called. "Ms. Wheeler? I'm Ivan. Right this way." JH2 rose to escort me to the massage room.
Holymotherofgod.
For the next hour I would endure the relentless pain of thumbs being pressed into soft tissue, sans soothing massage oil, and the intermittent embarrassment of heavy mouth breathing and a body too large for the room slamming into the table with murmurs of "oh, I'm so sorry." He slapped my triceps, reminding me of their lack of firmness, squeezed the muscles above my knee to make me jump repeatedly, and then attempted to massage my psoas (no easy feat for the most talented of masseurs) by plunging his fingers deep below my rib cage without regard to the gasps of pain and cries of "no, no thank you" coming from me. He massaged my back like a three-year old playing the piano, pounding his splayed finger tips into my back in a non-sensical pattern, as if he had seen a SNL sketch with John Belushi imitating a masseur. When I finally thought it couldn't get any worse, he mounted the table and pressed his knees into my hamstrings while lifting my arms behind me in some kind of move previously seen on the WWE. His belly rested against my back in a way just far too intimate for anyone who I have not invited to mount me from behind.
Throughout it all I was relatively silent other than gasps of pain or muffled shouts of "that's enough pressure, please". Why? Because I am PC-overloaded Oaklander who was so afraid to voice my overwhelming discontent in case it was perceived as someone who doesn't like overweight people. A fat hater. Someone who judges others by their weight and appearance rather than the fact they're beating the sh*t of your body while ripping your skin from your bones with dry, firm hands.
Welcome to the Bay Area, where strong, confident women are cowed by their need to be perceived as politically-correct even when faced with bodily harm or watching a free hour in a stress-laden life slip away, sadly, painfully and leaving visible bruises.
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