Shortly into to my CrossFit journey, I began having problems with my shoulder. Aggravation turned into pain. And it finally reached a point that I couldn’t even reach out to grab something off the pantry shelf without the aid of my other hand. Add to that, the excruciating pain that came with it, making it difficult to even get dressed in the mornings.
One of my family members suggested a massage therapist who had worked wonders with her back and was adept at handling sports-related injuries. With the appointment made, I anxiously awaited the impending relief.
The suggested therapist was extremely personable. And by “extremely personable”, I mean he would Not. Shut. Up! He talked incessantly throughout the entirety of the 50-minute session; not surprisingly, the result was anything but relaxation.
I recognized a bit of relief from the pain, but we both agreed I needed multiple sessions in order to make this right.
During one session, the therapist's chosen topic of conversation was my husband's ex-wife. 50 minutes.
Finally, several sessions in, my pain still categorized as debilitating, I decided it was time to move on to the next step and seek some form of medical attention.
I went to a chiropractor. Of course, she found a myriad of problems which would require my seeing her at least three times per week, thereby paying for her German import or even a new vacation home. No thanks.
I tried Airrosti. And after three sessions, they decided they could not resolve my issue.
One MRI and one visit to an orthopedic surgeon later and I was diagnosed with a plethora of issues all in that one shoulder: arthritis, tendonitis, a small rotator cuff tear, and the main culprit, bursitis.
In the doctor’s words, and I quote, “Sharon … you’re just … old”. Some bedside manner, huh?
What he meant was, sitting at a computer and mousing with my right hand for the better part of 20-some-odd years had caused my shoulder (and all associated joints and muscles) to simply wear out. A steroid injection saved the day.
But I digress …
Following my retirement, I began CrossFitting five days per week. With the added exertion of my muscles, it became obvious that regular massages were needed.
I returned to the same spa as before and simply requested any available male. Yes, I was stereotyping, believing that only a male could leaving me feeling like melted butter.
I saw a couple of different therapists: one who treated me like the delicate flower he apparently thought I was (and didn’t use enough pressure) and the other, a bandana-wearing, wannabe cholo who kept calling me “Mama” throughout the session (talk about skeevy! Ewwwww!)
At the suggestion of one of my coaches, I gave the spa one last try. She gave me one name: Pedro.
Pedro, as it turns out, is a tall, strapping young man with an accent. With. An. Accent.
At the end of my session, you could’ve poured me off the table (because … melted butter).
Over the years, Pedro and I have talked CrossFit, rucking (What the Ruck?), scuba diving, martial arts, dieting & healthy eating, tattoos and travel. It so happens that on three different occasions, we were traveling to the same destination within a few months of one another; we traded stories and travel tips.
When my husband and I travelled to the Phillipines last year, he promised I was in for the best massage of my life. Better than Pedro?
Well … he wasn’t wrong.
During that trip, I had a total of four pretty amazing massages. But one of them was full of surprises!
The therapist, a woman, stayed in the room while I undressed. That was surprise #1.
As I lay face-down on the table, she crawled on top of me, straddling my backside. I supposed she needed a little more leverage with which to massage my back. But then … she dug her knees into my back, inching her way up my spine one vertebrae at a time. Until her knees rested on my shoulders.
What in the actual hell???
But that’s not the end of it. Oh No. After she had me turn over and having placed a lovely scented towel over my eyes, she began to rub my belly. I giggled (I’m ticklish). She giggled. Again … W.T.H.???
And then … the finale. She rubbed all around my boobs! I’m pretty sure I jumped, for I certainly was not expecting THAT!
As I tell the story of how the tiny Phillipino had “handled” me, Keith simply laughs.
This past week, while on vacation in Puerto Vallarta, he and I decided to do a couple’s massage (75 minutes) and facials. For $48 each, we thought it a bargain.
And this time, when the girl had me turn over on my back and began rubbing my belly, I was prepared for what came next. But I still giggled.
We enjoyed it so much, that we wanted to do another couple’s massage on Valentine’s Day.
After a lovely breakfast overlooking the ocean and walking along the Malecon hand-in-hand, we arrived 10 minutes early for our 11:40 appointment. They told us our room was ready and we could go straight in.
Cue the soothing music.
After a few minutes, there was a knock at the door. We were asked to move to a different room. It seems they had double-booked their sole “couples” room. The woman (of the other couple), they explained, was very upset and CRYING, because she wanted a couple’s massage today, and they wanted to make her happy. SHE. WAS. CRYING.
We moved. Not a problem. Except our couple’s massage was now being conducted in two separate rooms.
Once again, I lay face down and position the sheet over my back accordingly. I hear someone ask the woman, “Are you okay?” “Maybe”, she answered, “I might need 15 minutes or so to calm down”. Oh. The. Horror.
As I focused on relaxing my muscles, and not “fighting” the therapist, the way Pedro always tells me to do, I rather enjoyed the strength of the female therapist’s hands.
I contemplated what would cause someone to react the way the grown-ass woman had because for a moment, she thought she wasn’t going to get to lay next to her husband, in a room where no one is really talking and you’re either face down with your head in a donut or face up with a towel covering your eyes. I wondered if I might’ve reacted in the same way. I wondered if maybe, just maybe, they might pay for our massages after having displaced us from having our Valentine’s Day couple’s massage (they didn’t).
My thoughts then wandered. I thought about my training for an upcoming challenge (Where the Air is Thin). I thought about how flabby my body felt after having been out of the gym for a week and having eaten ALL the chips and guacamole in Puerto Vallarta. And committed to making more of an effort in the gym when I got home.
I dreamt of our next vacation and how I would maintain some semblance of a workout routine while on said vacation. I mentally checked off the things I still needed to do in order to plan for next vacation.
I hoped that Keith was enjoying his massage as much as I was enjoying mine.
I pondered what other people thought of while they were getting a massage.
And I wondered, as the therapist made her way from my
hamstrings to my feet, whether the bottoms of my feet … were clean. God, I hoped so!As we laid on the beach afterwards, our bodies glistening from the massage oil, our hair mussed up (also with massage oil), our muscles fluid, but not quite jello, we agreed.
Our couple’s massage completed in separate, but adjoining rooms, had not … rubbed us the wrong way.
