The only two times I have been to a massage parlor (parlor- God, now that sounds cheap), okay, spa, have been more for the “Eh, so is this what a massage is all about?” experience. But for the last year and a half, I have been promising myself a treat whose money “disappears in the one meant for tomatoes” (zibulira mu z’enyanya). Massage Number One was decided upon after much urging from my two good friends. A hasty breakup, kids in school, me feeling extra lonely and abandoned. So, I made my way to the spa one Sunday afternoon after church. And a heavy lunch. Mistake number one.
The massage chamber, warm, box-like, sound-proof. I lay on the massage table as the bespectacled masseuse asked me what fragrance of oil I would like.
“???”
The spa was located on a hill and the window in the chamber was slightly open, so there was a cold draught coming in as it rained heavily. Halfway through, I asked the masseuse to let me out for a “short call”. That visit ended with a pedicure and nails painted in a very weird color that I wiped it off the minute I got home.
Bad.
I promised myself that I would let my hair down the next time. And so it was that that next time came. I went armed with all the problems I could carry, hoping that the one hour I paid for would make them vanish.
The receptionist at the massage parl… sorry, spa, should be first point of relaxation. And as she flashed me her widest, warmest smile, I picked out what treatment I would want. On the menu there was aromatherapy, deep tissue massage, hot stone massage, Swedish massage, candle wax massage…
I wished I had Googled before I came.
“I just want a massage. To wash all the stress away.” Maalo.
“Okay. I know what to get you.” She looked up from her computer and flashed her teeth again.
It came with some compliments. A glass of juice and some “popcorns” or cookies - before or after (I didn't want a repeat of my earlier experience, where my bladder nearly ripped open after two fizzy drinks). I quickly opted for the after.
After about 10 minutes, a young man in a white shirt and black trousers approached.
“This way Madam.”
I was led out on to the balcony, a special waiting place.
Five minutes there, my eyes darting up and down, all around. Trying to imagine soft hands, soft music, and total relaxation. It was not working. Hmmm…
The same pair of trousers returned. “Follow me.”
It was now beginning to feel surreal. My mind frantically searched for relaxation. Was he the one going to do the massage? This was not what I paid for.
He led me into a room with many cabinets and asked me to choose a name from a list he held in his hand.
My eyes landed on “Ivory”.
He handed me a huge key with a key holder. A mini-elephant tusk.
Trousers said I would find the items I needed in the cabinet and let him know when I was done.
This was getting more mysterious.
Inside there was a gown and a pair of orange rubber slippers.
He was waiting patiently outside the door and there he ‘handed’ me to another young lady.
“Come with me.” She carried a huge, folded white towel.
She led me along a long hospital-like corridor with rooms on either side. We met an elderly man who I guessed had just finished a deep-tissue. I also spotted a woman who had mediated at a workshop I attended. She was tying her dreads into a bun as she prepared for her session. I averted my eyes.
Oba where were we going?
At the end of the passage, we turned right. The attendant opened the first door. There was a seat, like a bench, built into the wall. The floors and walls were white. She said it was a steam bath and I should take off my gown, wrap the towel around my body, sit down and relax.
Then she walked out and shut the door quietly.
Slowly, the warmth began to build up. Then it became hot. Then sweltering hot. The steam began to get in my eyes, my nose, my ears. I was sweating, or was it condensation- God, those science lessons I hated so much. Was this how hot hell is?
I started to feel like I couldn't breathe. I got up and began pacing. My mind was racing. The floor was slippery and I nearly fell. I imagined I was feeling dizzy. I dashed to the door, and looked out through the small window, which I think was one-way (I could look out, but no-one could see inside. There was nobody there.
I visualized myself lying in a heap at the door when they finally opened the muggy prison in which they had trapped me against my will. What would my epitaph read- 'herein died Linda… of excessive steam inhalation, like the villain Injun Joe at the mouth of the sealed cave in “Tom Sawyer”'?
I considered hammering on the door, but who would hear me? Just as I was about to die of suffocation (or so I thought), the handle turned. I didn't even have the time to rush back to my seat. She found me standing at the entrance.
“How was it? Did you relax?” That dratted word again.
I could only nod my head.
The masseuse was waiting when I arrived. She handed me a pair of disposable panties. The material felt like these new shopping bags we use these days. Hmmmm…
“Please relax”. (Okay, now I was getting REALLY tired of that word.)
“Which fragrance (she said “fraglance") do you want? There’s Lemongrass, Orange, Sunflower, Lavender, Vanilla.”
Sniff, sniff into each bottle. One smelt like Indian incense.
“Use Orange.”
The table was rather high. I climbed the stool and lay down. The table was surprisingly very soft and comfortable.
There is an expert way these masseuses remove your towel and replace it with a sheet. Yaani, your body never leaves the table.
Face fitted into the head cradle, hands arranged by my side, legs and feet straightened out. I didn't want any wringing of my toes or pinching my ears, slapping my calves… (or attempting anything risqué)
By this time, the word “relax” had beaten a hasty exit. My mind was doing extra time.
“How have you been feeling? Tired? Stressed? Any joint pains?”
I wanted to pour out the bag of problems I had carried with me. But somehow I said, “Just stress. I want to relax.” That word again.
She started with my tired back. Kneading. Stroking my weary arms. Working the knots in my neck. Slapping the calves. I drew the line at the thighs and the gluteus maximus.
“But it is part of what you paid for.” I refused to listen to her coaxing.
My maalo also meant that I was on my stomach the whole time.
Meanwhile, my face, fixed into the head cradle, was feeling hot and uncomfortable and my eyes were wide open. I had gone with the intention of falling into heavenly sleep for that one hour but waaahh! The “melt away your tiredness” promise at the entrance of the spa had refused to materialize. The calmness I had expected to feel had evaded me.
My mind was thinking about whether she thought my small frame had extra (unnecessary) rolls of fat? What about my cellulitey thighs? Had I lain the correct way? I wanted to ask questions. Instead she shushed me up. My head couldn't unplug.
And suddenly the hour was over. Just like that...
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