Matt Liere: Massage not necessarily good for what ails you
On the last day of the late goose season, I blew an easy triple on a flock of Canadians strafing my makeshift blind on the river. An aggravated shoulder injury exploded in pain as I swung on the number two bird, and I missed the first shot from my Benelli pump, shooting 6 feet under.
Cousin George, a maniacal waterfowler who viewed missed opportunities as sacrilegious, was quick to offer advice.
“You should try a massage. A professional one. Deep tissue,” he told me.
“A massage? Really?” The word alone was at odds with George’s vocabulary, one more accustomed to reciting gun specifications than recommendations for boutique services. But George was an excellent shot, and months of chronic pain and negative success with traditional methods of treatment weren’t working on anything but my pocketbook.
“Don’t worry.” he said, acknowledging my skepticism. “It’ll loosen you up, work out those knots. I guarantee it.” I scheduled an appointment for the next week.
Meeting my masseuse did little to comfort any dubiousness. The gruff, thick-boned woman layered in shawls ordered me to disrobe and lay face down on the table, her thick accent implying I might end up in the Gulag if I didn’t.
She left the room long enough for me to quickly strip off my pants and jump under heated sheets, which were lovely, and press my face into a vinyl donut hole pillow at the end of the table, which was not. Awaiting her return, I wondered how sanitary the vinyl was, why I was buck naked, and how any of this was going to help my shot shoulder. My anxiety increased.
Svetlana barked questions I suspect were aimed at getting to the root of my ailments, but were understood as – “Is blue the color of water in Maine?” and “Does the pot work best in Thailand’s middle court?” – to which I confidently answered “Yes” and “No”, respectively.
Apparently satisfied, Svetty got right to work on my feet, beginning at the opposite end of where I logically thought she should. My concern rose as she worked her way up my legs to my thighs, manipulating my soft tissues with the force of a hammer, using what I imagined were probably bony knobs of human femurs, but dearly hoped were only her protruding elbows. I found it difficult to breathe.
My back was next, pummeled with sharp, karate-chop strikes as my darling angel painfully worked my spine like a teppanyaki grill, her efforts punctuated by breaths of exertion wrapped in garlic and oregano. From my donut-hole vantage point, I watched her brown, utilitarian loafers stutter-step around my flimsily-covered nakedness, and inhaled an overpowering mixture of incense, sweat, and a not-insignificant amount of fear.
I recalled my wife’s fond recollection of entering a trance-like state during her massage sessions, where an hour would pass in mere seconds of blissful fantasy, and she would emerge on the other side completely rejuvenated. For me, any chance of euphoria was clearly off the table, and I decided to do the same. I gave the international time-out signal, rolled off the side, grabbed my pants and left.
My post-traumatic conversation with George revealed he’d never had a massage himself, only suggested I try it because he’d heard good things, but he thanked me for the heads up. I suggested he pay the balance of my bill if he wanted his borrowed Bigfoot decoys back. I guaranteed it.