For a few years now I have made regular visits to a masseur on my doctor’s recommendation. Slow deterioration of fitness, age and aches had got me into this situation so I agreed a little TLC would be appropriate. This could not have been further from the truth of course. It is one thing to have your body soothed into a relaxed state quite another to have those aches and pains identified and kneaded into submission by a skilled practitioner. Parting with a few dollars to satisfy the sadistic pleasure of a torturer was a bitter pill to swallow except that for the rest of the day after that first treatment I felt really well. My body was cleansed of a myriad ills, albeit temporarily, but it did give me hope that my old bones were not going to crumble around me.
My return visits were not regular at first but with the well being achieved it encouraged me to attend on a monthly basis. Soon the manipulation, the music in the background and the two way conversations about everything under the sun soon made the visit quite a pleasure.
I say two way conversations; this is not quite true. While the masseur a woman, half my age spoke of many things, my utterances were few. A response when appropriate, an admonition at her finding a recalcitrant tendon or the idle chit-chat about families, pets and holidays, were interspaced by a dreamy state of semi-consciousness as I melted under her care.
This of course was my undoing. In receiving treatment I was stripped down to my jocks and not a stitch more. Can you imagine my chagrin when on completion of the treatment one day, the massage table lowered and a tap on the shoulder to say you can get up now, I found I had my socks on! Mumbling “I forgot to take my socks off” she replied with a laugh. “No, you were fast asleep so I put them back on for you!”
It is one thing to have a masseur, quite another to have a dresser as well!
