I’ve had a delightful time collecting an assortment of knots and tension in my shoulders and neck the last few weeks.
If it hasn’t been the recent unpleasantness with Scouts, it’s been the new style of walking I’ve shown long-term commitment to. Some would call it a limp. Others, a stagger. Me? I like to refer to it as an accident waiting to happen.
And so, when my beloved booked me in for a massage, I almost fainted with delight.
She even drove me to the appointment, and we sat, waiting, considering the wonders of the strapping tape that was on display. Colours and tensions and widths galore, this stuff looked impressive and expensive. But more about that later.
The physio called my name and I hobbled along behind him to his room. Him? YES, HIM! Now, I’ve had a couple of massages but never with a male massage therapist. What if he wanted to touch my bum? What if I looked up when he was standing in front of me, and scored a face full of crotch? What if I said something awkward?
That last one? I think we’re all aware it isn’t a “what if”. More of a “What happens when?”.
And it happened fairly early on in the piece.
I’m lying on the massage bed, face in the hole, determinedly gazing at the mechanisms that were holding up the bed. No need to look up. No need at all. I directed all of my answers to his questions to the hole. I had no idea if he could hear anything I was saying. But I was not going to risk looking up. No, no, nooooo.
He was standing at my head end when it happened.
He had found a delightful collection of rock-type knots at the base of my skull. When he first touched them, I pulled away so hard that I almost shot through the bed and landed on the mechanisms. It was the distracting image of myself sporting several puncture wounds that made me drop my guard.
The massage therapist pushed in to the centre of the knots, and asked me how it felt.
What can I say, I didn’t think before I spoke.
Here is how the conversation went:
MR MASSAGE: How does this feel?
MR MASSAGE: It doesn’t hurt?
ME: I think it is going to hurt, but right now it feels amazing with your fingers inside me. IT. IT. I meant, with your fingers inside the knot.
MR MASSAGE: Silence.
MR MASSAGE: Coughs.
ME: That sounded pretty wrong, huh…
MR MASSAGE: I’ll just move back to your shoulders.
ME: Good idea.
WHAT THE HECK IS WRONG WITH ME?!?!?
Anyway, anyway, the strapping tape.
He spoke to me about my posture, and suggested he would show me how to tape up my back so that I would have a “reminder” to sit correctly. He disappeared, and returned with my beloved. He showed her how to strap my back. Blah blah blah, did I seriously tell him his fingers felt amazing inside me? Oh my god.
We returned home, and I remembered to sit nicely for about two days.
Then the tape started to itch.
Here’s something no one tells you: Trying to remove strapping tape from your back single-handedly makes you look like a gigantic chicken laying an oversize egg.
Have you ever dropped a clanger during a massage? Any tips for removing tape?