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| A much more enjoyable adventure in Mexico. |
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For those of you who are unfamiliar with massages, there are different levels you can receive. In the very beginning, you have the neck and shoulder massage, fully clothed, usually in the middle of the mall or airport. It’s very safe and out there in the open. BUt once you start closing doors and removing more clothing, massages become more intimate and relaxing. When you’re new, you start at the low end of the massage ladder and work your way up each new rung. Usually.
Brochures for massages always show the best case scenario: a beautiful woman who looks blissfully relaxed, water and palm trees in the background, and the edge of the pamphlet cuts off a pair of unisex arms at the elbow. But in real life, those hands are attached to a real person with their own odors, breathing patterns, and footwear (these are the things you notice when you’re face down). And there are usually a long list of items trying to tramp through your mind. Did I put enough money in the meter? I shouldn’t of had that last bite of lunch. What if I get gas and they press down hard too hard?
So it’s an interesting business of subtleties and etiquette that aren’t always spelled out in black and white. One of these threads is wearing underwear, yea or nay? This is one of those levels you work up to. For women, it’s usually going first without your bra, then eventually it the fully monty.
Another level is having a masseuse of the opposite gender. Yes, you’re face down, all the important bits are covered, but you’re still in a darkened room with a complete stranger for more than an hour who is feeling your body and the only thing you learn about them is their footwear choices.
This is my story of making a few jumps at once. I was just to the stage in my massage career where I was ready to go fully naked, and unexpectedly was assigned, for the first time, a male masseuse. I could have said no to the massage, or even kept more clothing on, but I was sure that he was going to feel my insecurities through his fingers. So I tried to play the whole thing cool, but it became such an inner dialogue distraction that it was hard to really enjoy the experience.
I was in Mexico at the time, which made me a little nervous. I wasn’t confident in my ability to effectively communicate with the masseuse. What if they asked me about trying leeches with my massage and I unwittingly agreed? What if Mexican spa etiquette was different and commit some grievous faux pas that expelled me from the resort? In hindsight, I was probably over thinking.
Wendy and I arrived well advanced of our appointed time and lounged in their open air waiting area. I was just solidifying my drawers decision when our masseuses approached. One was a small and compact woman in her 40s, and the other a larger, beefier man in his later 20s. At to my inner horror, I was assigned to the man.
As I followed him down the darkened hallway, I gave a furtive glance over my shoulder and saw Wendy disappear happily with her female attendant. Now, I will bear all manners of discomfort and inconvenience before ever complaining or letting on that I am uncomfortable in a situation. Playing it cool outweighed looking awkward in any social situation. So even though I hadn’t prepared to take the opposite gender step in massage journey, I wasn’t about to request to be rescheduled with a female.
We arrived in our secluded room and he shut the door behind me. It was a relief that the room seemed similar to the previous hot stone massages: the bed with the toilet seat shaped head rest, the Crockpot full of rocks warming, Asian-fusion relaxation music playing overhead. At least the physical setting seemed normal. He started giving me a basic introduction to the session. AS he was speaking, I realized that I wasn’t understanding every word he was saying. Some words were lost with his accent and the more I thought about
not being able to understand the less I could actually concentrate on what he was saying. I was starting to regret looking up the Spanish word for leech when he ended abruptly with, “Yes?”
A nervous smile and a nod made him go away and I was thankful no greater reply was needed. I started undressing and found that I was standing in front of a full length mirror. Once my normal level of clothing was off, I stood looking in the mirror with just my underwear on, trying to decide if it was still a good idea to go through with removing it all. I had said I was going to do it, making it feel like a challenge to myself. But I hadn’t expected it to be a male. Could I really climb two rungs on the massage ladder at once? The more I thought about it, the more nervous I became that he would come back to start the massage and I would still be standing there looking lost. A final, “Don’t be a chicken!” crossed my mind and they were off.
Now I felt like I had to make up some time getting under the sheets because I had wasted a lot of time making the decision. I got on the bed and tried to get under the sheet as quickly as possible. For some reason, my legs wouldn’t go down under the covers, even with some kicks to loosen the tight tuck under the bed. I turned on my side to use my hands to pull the ends out so I could get under but got twisted up when I laid back down. So instead of being covered from neck to feet, the sheet was caught around my waist and tangled in my legs, bearing my backside quite visible.
Being a reasonable adult who has had many years of experience dealing with sheets, I should have been able to resolve the situation in a relatively short time. But I started to panic. I was thinking how ridiculous this would look if the guy came in now: half covered, mooning the free world, convulsing as I was still trying to kick my legs under the cover. The more I thought about him walking in on me in this humiliating position, the more awful I made it.
Slowly and agonizingly, I was able to shift the whole sheet to a decent position and felt sheltered again. I was panting slightly and had worked a slight perspire on my face. I stuck my face into the toilet seat and tried to regain my composure.
A few moments later the knock came. Here is another massage etiquette mystery. I have never known what the right thing to say to the returning knock: Yes, Ready, I’m done? They all seem lame and nothing really conveys the message that I am naked and ready for you to come in and touch me. I used a lame “uh-huh,” which was more of a grunt than English. Even with the Spanish/English barrier, I guess he had heard the grunt enough times to know that it was safe to come in.
I concentrated on steadying myself and watched his sandaled feet walk around the bed a few times, preparing myself to let go and relax when he started to move the sheet I worked so hard to get under. He starts working along the edges, moving it higher and higher along my back, when he suddenly gives it a billowing shake up over his head, revealing the landscape below. The only thing I could think was, “Well, he’s seen my butt. I guess we’re close now. It shouldn’t be too uncomfortable now that we got that over.” I was wrong.
As he’s walking around the table, I notice that my left arm is nestled against my side with the sheet tucked between. On my right however, I was reaching but only finding myself. It took me another moment to realize that in my mad dash to be covered, I failed to notice that the sheet had been folded lengthwise and I failed to unfold it . Now it was too narrow to cover all of me. “Well, he’s already seen my butt. What’s a little side boob?”
Even then, I wasn’t willing to stop the whole process. I was trying to turn my brain off and not think of anything, but the mental image of my struggles with the sheet kept replaying. I could hear him move some rocks out of the water and he moved the sheet down my back to being the massage.
The whole purpose of using hot and smooth river stones is to reach deeper layers of muscle and release tension. Once the back is massaged, the masseuse places heated stones along the spine and covers them with a blanket. I had enjoyed this particular step before, feeling like a lizard baking on the rocks. He started at the top of my spine and worked his way down, placing more and more stones. I kept thinking each one would be the last, but he seemed to be determined to get as many as he could on my body. The last stone he chose to leave was so low that it teetered at the top of the “great divide.” It was so close that with some concentrations, I could have held onto it.
Once the arms and legs were massaged, and the spine stones were removed, it was time to switch sides. He lifted the far edge of the sheet up as a screen so I could flip to a sunny side up position. This was another awkward moment, since I was still operating at a half-sheet capacity. I sidled into position and wondered exactly how much longer before I could leave.
He did finish the session with a scalp massage and quiet words that translated to, “Take your time and I’ll meet you outside.” Here is another area of unclear expectations. They will always say take your time getting up, take your time getting dressed. But I feel like there is an expected timeline before they will start knocking again to make sure you haven’t fallen asleep or are stealing the rocks.
I only laid there long enough for the door to shut before I sat up and started getting dressed. The sooner I was out of that room, the better. If there had been an unlocked window I could have exited through instead, I would have used it. But instead, oily hair disheveled, I had to greet the masseuse again in the hallway. I was trying my best to seem grateful and pleasant without making eye contact with this man who had been witness to the most awkward bodily experience of my adult life. I took the sweet tea he proffered at exiting and assured him that yes I would drink plenty of water that day. I figured that a couple tequila spritzers would qualify and probably be more relaxing than that massage.
