I went for a massage the other day—it was a Thai massage. The masseuse, a robust young woman, greeted me with a broad smile as she ushered me to the table and instructed me to strip down to my boxer shorts. Was there a glint in her eyes, perhaps hinting at leading a sheep to the slaughter?
From the word go, I was putty in her hands. She started with my left leg and nearly ripped it apart. The leg was squeezed, swerved, pushed, pinched, and twisted, a relentless symphony of manoeuvres, until I pleaded for gentleness. My threshold for pain is quite minimal, after all.
“She said ‘okay’ but her actions contradicted her words; the torture continued unabated. I could almost read her thoughts through the tone of her voice and the unyielding pressure of her hands—“These cry babies always ask for gentleness then complain to my boss that the massage was too soft. Not today, not with this one.”
I suddenly realized this was a two-hour massage, and I had another leg and two arms yet to endure. She had all the time in the world, so she gave me the full works using her complete arsenal, which included her thumbs, fists, elbows, legs, and even her body weight.
“In the process, she mentioned that my right knee was in bad shape. I marvelled at how her skilled touch, needing no X-ray, could detect the anomalies, and she was right, of course, about my knee.”
As she started to work on my leg, sole, and toes, I silently thanked the heavens that a foot reflexologist wasn’t covering that area. In foot reflexology, they use additional torture tools like stubbed, rounded, and pointed wooden sticks and are really skilled at using these instruments of torture.
Foot reflexologists also seem to have a front-row seat to the agony etched across your face, a privilege the masseuse sorely misses. And oh, how they savor it! Their grins widen as they watch the ballet of your twitching limbs and flinching visage. Each grimace, each contortion of pain, is like applause to their ears—if you scream, it’s practically a standing ovation.
Much like the masseuse, they appear to not understand the desperate pleas of "Please, be a little more gentle.”
Returning to my iron lady after she had finished mutilating my legs and arms, I thought I might finally get a chance to relax. But there was no such luck. She began on my buttocks, pressing her elbow down hard until it seemed to reach bone. Then, moving in relentless circles, she worked her way up to my shoulders.
As she pressed down on my right shoulder, she immediately sensed something was not in sync. “Your right hand seems off as well,” she declared with the confidence of a seasoned detective. I wasn’t surprised; sometimes raising my arm felt like lifting a particularly stubborn cat, likely due to the early stages of arthritis. Her final verdict had me raising an eyebrow: “The right side of your body isn’t up to mark.” I had to laugh—was I supposed to get an upgrade?
Somehow, I couldn’t help but admire her skills and her knowledge in her field. With a surgeon’s precision, she applied just enough pressure to maximize the effects. As one with a famously low pain threshold, I still marvelled at her expertise. Finally, it was all over, and I gave her a good tip for the torture.
As I crawled and limped away from the massage parlour, the full weight of the afternoon’s ordeal began to settle in, not just in my sore muscles but in my mind as well. Why, then, do I find myself returning to the massage table, session after session, despite the pain? It’s a question that echoes with each step I take on newly awakened legs.
The answer, I’ve come to realize, lies not in the pain endured but in the vitality regained. Each press of the masseuse’s elbow, each twist and turn of my limbs, while torturous, seems to reboot my weary muscles and joints. It’s as though through the very intensity of the pain, a deeper healing emerges—a realignment not just of the body, but of spirit, soul and mind . Nothing beats walking out feeling like a tenderized superhero.
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