Masseuse

I’ve never had a massage before. I always wrote it off as something for rich people. Who else would pay a hefty chunk of change to have a stranger rub them up with oil?

But I’ve noticed lately that my body has a general achiness. I wake up sore and don’t want to move. So for my birthday, my mom got me a gift certificate. Walking through that sliding door, golden ticket in hand, I was ready to reinhabit my body.

What I mean by that is, I have been beginning to wonder what it even means to have a body. I lie in bed, go on walks, talk to loved ones, and sometimes don’t feel all the way there. My feet are moving, my lips are talking, but my mind is somewhere else, hovering above me, thinking,

“What are we doing? Who is that guy? Why is he looking at you? He knows you don’t have a job. He knows you’re a good-for-nothing waste of space. They all do.”

I remember reading somewhere to focus on your feet. Ground yourself. Notice how your feet feel in your shoes as they make contact with the pavement. The streets comply and now I am breathing deeply, marveling at toe and heel, rising and falling to their cushioned bed, unconcerned with my mental dramas.

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She leads me to the table, invites me to undress as much as I feel comfortable, but warns that wearing a bra makes it harder.

When she leaves, I rip my shoes off, pants, shirt, bra, and look at myself in the mirror. Is that really my body? It is winter and I’ve barely been leaving the house, but I am surprised by the layer that has built around my stomach.

I need to hit the gym.

She applies the lotion, evenly spreading it down to my ankle.

Oh no, I realize I haven’t shaved. Now, she has to touch my gross, hairy leg.

Gross? I'm surprised by my own use of the word. I remember looking down at my legs, shower water dripping down my calves, and thinking I should shave, but then, I don’t want to.

I don’t want to shave, because sometimes it makes me itchy and it’s winter and no one will know and I wouldn’t dare tell Women’s magazine… but sometimes I think my leg hair is cute, growing out past the stubble, curling around my skin like vines on an old house.

My intent for coming here was to do something nice for my body. My body who takes care of me even when I don’t take care of it; who is overfed, underfed, overworked, bored, who inhales and exhales whatever I tell it to.

But here I am criticizing it, wondering what the woman at Massage Envy thinks of it, a woman who sees bodies for a living.

A vision forms in my mind, her taking the time to rate the bodies she sees, comparing all the vastly different shapes, sizes, moles, hair. She’s got a venn diagram and several colleagues look on in astonishment.

It seems so silly and yet I do want to impress her. I want her to like my body.

I want a complete stranger to like my body so that I can like my body.

I want to apologize for all the ways it’s not the right body, not the kind of body that deserves to be pampered.

But instead, I close my eyes.

I am miles away from my body and yet I can feel her hands, how she takes her time, how she has rehearsed these movements many times before.

In this moment, my body is seen, treated, but free from the story of me. I was never born, I will never die, I am just a body being touched by warmth.