Cooties
Having finally made the decision to not pursue a 300hr certification, I’ve set about this year to take more workshops and expand my education on a more buffet style basis. I’ve long considered taking classes at New York’s Open Center, once in awhile I even scope out a catalog and highlighted some interesting classes, that I never managed to make. Not so this year. I pro-actively marked in my calendar all of the workshops and certifications I was interested in pursuing. The first one was “Introduction to Swedish Massage”, a real winner for me since I am the worlds most avid connoisseur.
I couldn’t wait to start. I registered early, and had all of my materials packed and ready. I arrived a couple minutes late to class – and so was forced to do the scooby-doo entrance. I found a seat, and began to take notes, in that breathless, and bothered having run there kind of way. The teacher was demoing the basic strokes. I noticed how she had a remarkably soothing voice, and how well she described the motions, it reminded a lot of yoga. And then she uttered the most unexpectedly dreaded words, “find yourself a partner”. The floor fell, and I panicked. So that was why we were instructed to bring a bed sheet, massage oil, and a towel. OF COURSE ! How did I not connect the dots?
I figured no one would want to be with the late comer. But as as quickly as she had uttered it, the guy next to me asked if I wanted to be his partner. Every cell in my body protested. The quasi word “PERV” seethed in my mind. But somehow the words “sure” seeped out. And then the panic really began. Would I have to touch him? Of course. Would he touch me? OF COURSE. How do I get out of it, without being rude? Too late. This exchange consumed my mind. It only got worse when he casually disclosed, that he had forgotten the bed sheet, and so would it be OK to use mine? UGH, why are boys like this? I groaned. So G-R-O-S-S my inner girl squealed. She continued that if I went through with it, I’d have cooties, the irreparable kind. As apparent in past posts I am dis-inclined to touch boys. Again the word “sure” slithered out, i had a kind of spare sheet anyway, so I didn’t have to “share” before washing. Washing suddenly becoming an immediate priority in my mind.
The tables in the class were close together, and so somehow I managed to get through massaging him. Though, I probably gave the world’s worst massage, I knew my touch was better described as “limpy poking” than anything resembling swedish, or “deep tissue”. I never even gave up my inner quest to somehow get out of being next to go on the slab, until his time was up. I then spent about the next 10 minutes procrastinating changing, and when I did change I took so long a line had formed outside my bathroom door, of angry seething women. I was sorry. But not sorry enough to get on the table any sooner than I absolutely had to. Finally, I barked at the (still unknown, un-named man) “nothing below the waist, my fiance wouldn’t appreciate it. Just focus on the upper back and shoulders“. He readily agreed, and somewhere inside me I realized he probably knew I was uncomfortable and possibly just as uncomfortable in the situation.
I managed to not expose anything below the waist when my massage started. I felt a sense of security, and quite possibly was finally relaxing. When the teacher strolled past us, and “adjusted” the towel, causing me to flap like fish on land. Thankfully he said nothing and encouraged me to put the towel back to it’s original starting point. Somehow in the next 45 minutes I did miraculously manage to relax. He did limit his movements to my upper back and shoulders, which calmed my anxiety. By the time I slithered off the table to change into my clothes, my sense of relief was profound.
I will NOT be late next week, my new mantra. I’ll get a girl. But at some point, I have to accept that boys aren’t so bad. Yes they’re worst kept, some my god even have hair on their back. But I should give my “healing touch” to men and women alike. I mean what would my own world be without my main man? Even with yoga, I daresay my heart wouldn’t be half as full.
