Mission Im-SPA-ssible

Shakira Sison

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'Was I too tightly-wound mentally or emotionally that I couldn't put my guard down and relax? Was I incapable of receiving touch from a paid stranger?'

In many circles, the sentence “I went to the spa” usually elicits oohs and ahs.  Especially within a group of women, a conversation about self-pampering and R&R inevitably includes mention of a massage as the best way to unwind. To me, the idea induces horror.

I don’t enjoy massages. I learned during my first real massage (via a gift certificate to a fancy Makati spa), that a massage was not relaxing to me. It was a thoughtful present from my sister who knew I was stressed on my final days before my move to New York. But instead of relaxation, I felt strange, even a little bit violated. I surprised myself by feeling like a prude, not wanting unfamiliar hands on me.

I had gotten little massages from lovers before and didn’t mind them. To me, an affectionate touch was welcome and soothing. But the idea of lying naked with my back against a person whose job it was to smoothen and knead my flesh in a routine designed to relax me was disturbing. I did everything but relax, questioning myself on why I could not enjoy such a popular pastime. Was I doing something wrong?

For some reason the soft Zen music, aromatherapy oils and dimmed lights did not create a state of calm for me. Instead, I became hypersensitive to my surroundings. I felt the coarseness of the sheets on my face pressed against a foam donut hole. Through it I smelled the detergents and bleach used for laundry. I smelled the disinfectants on the floors. I got fixated on the colors of tile grout, concrete, or hardwood. I studied the attendants’ feet. I wondered how long they had to stand all day.

“Just close your eyes,” friends would say. Sure, but my body would not give up betraying me. I’d get fixated on exactly where the sheet would be as the masseuse exposed each body part one at a time for modesty. I’d feel each minor lump on the bed on my belly. I’d hear the breaths of the people around me. Once, during an almost successful attempt to block out my surroundings, I was stirred by an irregularity in my massage therapist’s respiratory pattern and wondered: Did she just yawn at me? 

Unfamiliar touch

While others feel that a massage is an escape from all stimuli and reality, to me it was an exercise in vulnerability. It was a curse in my pleasure-receiving ability. Not one to normally have issues about nudity, isolation, reciprocation or darkness, I decided that I wouldn’t give up on massages entirely, if only to solve this mystery.

This was easy as I happened to marry someone who loved massages, and would come home after each one feeling like Jello and with the most peaceful look on her face. Every time she found a new spa, she would urge me to try it. Most times I’d be reluctant because in New York, a 90-minute massage typically runs about $200 with tip. It was difficult for me to spend that much money on something I historically did not enjoy.

Every so often there would be a promo or a gift certificate from a friend and I’d get to test my theory. Was I too tightly-wound mentally or emotionally that I couldn’t put my guard down and relax? Was I incapable of receiving touch from a paid stranger?

I admit that I over-think things sometimes. During my last massage in Manila, I was surprised to be given a low bed for my treatment. Instead of being grateful that I didn’t have to climb so high or be so far from the ground, I got fixated on how bad this position must be for the masseuses’ backs. They must be in such pain after a day’s work and in need of massages themselves!

I wondered if they got paid well, and what fraction of what I paid the spa they were actually taking home. My friend explained that it’s a good job and it’s better than not taking anything home at all. But it still got in the way of my experience to know that it was at someone else’s expense. Or maybe I was just crazy in making someone else’s problems my own instead of just enjoying the moment. Why was I so guilty? 

Very recently, I got a massage as part of a hotel package. The massage therapist had a good technique of using her forearm to roll on my muscles. But instead of enjoying the moment, I became fixated on the feeling of her arm hairs on me. I noticed the amount of lotion she used and wondered if it kept her skin perpetually moisturized. Did the force she applied hurt her? Did she come home smelling of a spa but needing a spa treatment herself? Did anyone massage the breadwinner of that home? More importantly, did I need to fart? 

Mission impossible

I’ve made it a mission to conquer my under-appreciation of this ancient practice. Once, at a Chinese therapy center, I talked to myself and soothed my nerves with my own self-relaxation mantra.

Breathe deeply. It’s a massage and you’re supposed to enjoy it. Inhale…exhale. Relax, relax, relaxrelax, relax . . . 

I felt the lady’s hands on me and I continued to calm myself. 

Relax, relax, relax. See? I’m so relaxed and I can do this! Inhale…exhale. Relax, relax, relax . . .

Right then the lady pressed down on my shoulders and gasped.

“You’re very tense!” She said, as if she had never felt anything like it before.

Only then did I realize that in my effort to calm myself down, I was gritting my teeth and wrinkling my forehead, creating a hard tight mass where my rubbery shoulders should be. I gave up my efforts. I waved the white flag. Massages had officially defeated me.

I know what you’re going to say. I really should just relax, right? But you don’t understand. That’s exactly what I’m trying to do! Perhaps, it’s time to admit that relaxing under a stranger’s hands is something that’s just beyond me, and that I’m really better off decompressing on my own. – Rappler.com 

Shakira Andrea Sison is a Palanca Award-winning essayist. She currently works in finance and spends her non-working hours relaxing in crowded subway trains. She is a veterinarian by education and was managing a retail corporation in Manila before relocating to New York in 2002. Her column appears on Thursdays. Follow her on Twitter: @shakirasison and on Facebook.com/sisonshakira

 

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