Deep Tissue Massage Thoughts with Large Marge
March 3, 2013
March 3, 2013
Yesterday, I received a deep tissue massage by a Slovakian woman named Large Marge in the massage parlor’s last room on the left. (Only one thing in that statement is a lie.)
She asked me if I wanted my glutes massaged and it took all the effort I had to keep a straight face and resist asking, “Glutes are boobs right?”
It was the most violent massage I have ever experienced in my life. Don’t get me wrong, I asked for deep tissue but by deep tissue I didn’t request “toe-curling-pants-wetting-pain”. But like all good women, I bit my lip and took it in the dark.
Now the point of this post is not to discuss my sadomasochistic massage, it’s to talk about writing, ass faces.
In a roundabout way, I suppose.
I can never relax during a massage. I think this is partly related to my very first massage. I was probably 16. My step-mom booked a couples massage for my sister and I with a husband and wife naturalist team bent on introducing holistic methods to the masses. Sounds like the plot to a Captain Planet episode doesn’t it?
After much tee-heeing about the hilarity that we’d share a massage room, I was assigned the male masseuse. Or maybe I took one for the team for my 13-year-old sister. Either way – I still remember him. He reminded me of some old hippie…grey hair, ponytail, Aladdin-style vest. This did not worry me. The fact that he had a very long coke nail on his right pinkie finger was the kicker that kept me alert throughout the whole massage. Relaxation was not to be had.
I was terrified. I kept picturing him slipping in the oil and clawing me with his nail. I’d come out of that massage like poor old Rosemary Bathhouse after her demon-rape dream.
So because of that one experience and thanks to an extra-long coke nail, I can’t unwind. I always think. My brain whirls. In fact, there are always three main things I think as I’m being massaged:
1. “What body part are they rubbing me with? Because it feels like a [comment edited]…”
2. “What if lose control of my bowels?”
3. “Cake is awesome. I wish they could rub me with cake. Hey, let’s make that happen.”
But in addition to those slightly improper thoughts, I think of my stories. Stories in progress, yes, but it’s also a friggin’ fabulous time to brainstorm. Your mind wanders. And while I’m busy worrying about if the reason the masseuse is asking me to flip over onto my back is for mere human sacrifice, I’m also brewing up some pretty kooky scenarios in my noggin.
(Doesn’t the word “noggin” really get you jonesing for some egg nog? Think about it.)
I don’t entirely attribute the fact that I can’t relax because I’m a writer. Maybe I’m just neurotic. But what I do when I’m NOT relaxing is definitely related to my writing. I’ve always been like this. I can never NOT know what’s going on around me. I can’t fall asleep in public; I can’t sleep during a road trip or on an airplane. Sure, maybe I’m busy worrying about whether someone will teabag me while I doze but I don’t think that’s it.
I have to be constantly aware. And that’s a good thing for an eavesdropping, quote-stealing writer.
What this shows is that sometimes it’s okay to not to relax during a massage. Chalk it up to inspiration. I also came out of it with an envious case of bedhead.
After all, without Large Marge and her voluptuous forearms I never would have had this blog post. So the next time you want to come up with a plot point, drop $60 and head to the nearest massage parlor for a very happy ending.