Hah HAH! Have turned it in for binding! Have had massage!
The massage was lovely. But the thing is, I have come to realize that the therapist I used to go to back in the days of back-destroying travel was a brilliant, brilliant genius superwoman with dark powers. She was the only thing that kept me from walking around like a hunchback for two years. I saved per diem money by eating Wendy's salads every day on the road and would then give the rest of it to her twice a month, at which times she would work. me. over. No lie, the woman did not rest until she got through every layer of muscle on my body and worked out every last bit of tension. She made me whimper a few times. She was the first (and last) person who ever used the words "hard as a rock" in connection with my bum. Only she didn't mean it in a good way. And she would spend less time on the rest of me so she could tackle the calcifying disgrace that is the back of my shoulders.
The girl I went to today did not do those things. Even though I told her right away where it hurt and what needed attention, she seemed to be more going through a set routine than actually trying to fix me. I wish that instead of giving my kneecaps and the inside of my elbows such rapt attention she could have possibly turned some of that back over to the parts of me that actually get tense. There was this one part where she kept running one finger down the inside of my arm from my wrist to my elbow. It made me think of the episode on Friends where Ross gets stuck giving an old guy a massage and has to make it up as he goes, incorporating wooden spoons and Matchbox cars. ("He said he liked the cars!")
On a more positive note, though, the room was decorated very well, with pretty little tealights. It was all very relaxing. And she used this massage oil with lavendar essential oils that smelled fabulous. That is my story.
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