Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Man hands

I am a sucker for deep-tissue massage. When I peel myself off the table after being massaged, I want to feel like a piece of tenderized meat. For years I have searched for the perfect massage therapist to really get in there and work out the kinks, but everyone I go to has left me dissatisfied and wanting more.
 
Today, I have an appointment with Natasha. A friend recommended I try Natasha because, in her words, “she doesn’t mess around.” I am intrigued. 
 
I pull up to the bare-bones building where Natasha works and am struck by how it resembles Communist-bloc housing. Emblazoned in Russian in the front window is “Madison Hot Stone Therapy and Massage.” (I know it says this because, in smaller letters below, is the English translation.) Inside the shadowy and unquestionably not spa-like office, I meet Natasha. She is sturdy and robust, and my eyes immediately wander to her hands. They are like paddles. This is a little scary, and part of me wants to run. The other part of me is desperate for a decent massage, so I stay put.  
 
Speaking in a thick Russian accent, Natasha welcomes me and inquires about my “problem areas.”
“My entire body is my problem area!” I reply with a nervous barking laugh.
 
Natasha doesn’t smile. She leads me to her massage room and confirms that I want a deep-tissue massage instead of something lighter. When I nod, she says in her throaty voice, “I come from Soviet Union. In my country, deep tissue massage is very…intense. This is all right with you?” There is no turning back now. I am game.
 
After I disrobe and get settled on the table, which is covered with a bright homemade afghan (presumably from “her country”), Natasha begins. It takes approximately 4.5 seconds for me to realize that I have met my match. She starts with my ears, squeezing the lobes and cartilage in a way that is terrifying. I break out in a sweat and try to focus on my breathing. I never knew my ears were sore and needed to be massaged! I think feverishly. But clearly they do, because this hurts like a bitch!
                                                                                                                                                            
Natasha has a talent for seeking out many other body parts – my calves, my palms, the arches of my feet – where I wasn’t aware I was amassing stress. When she kneads these places, I feel my muscles protest against and then submit to her hands. It’s not exactly a restful experience, but my body is kind of enjoying being flattened like bread dough.  
 
As Natasha moves from head to toe, it is evident that she is more than a massage therapist: she is actually able to identify my medical conditions.
 
“You have asthma?” she asks. Yes, I do, but how in the world does she know that? As if reading my mind, she says, “I know because of the freckles you have on your body. In my country, we believe in ancient Eastern medicine. Everything is connected. ” I am skeptical of Natasha’s ancient Eastern medicine (how do freckles relate to lung function, anyway?) until she announces a few minutes later, “Ah! You also have sluggish digestion!”
“Yes,” I respond. Apparently there is some quality about my arms and legs that has alerted Natasha to the fact that my digestive track resembles an iron vault – what goes in does not, in fact, come out. I don’t understand the correlation between my arms and legs and intestines, but I’m becoming a fast believer in her Soviet way of looking at things.
 
“Are you successful in having bowel movements?” Natasha demands. Golly, this is a personal question, but I don’t see how I can possibly lie, seeing as though I am essentially naked and putty-like on the massage table before her.
 
“No, not exactly,” I sigh.
 
“Massage will help,” she declares. “Come back regularly and you will notice big difference.”
After all of my health concerns have been addressed, Natasha takes my massage to a different level by asking about my children. She wants to know how many I have, how old they are, and what they are like. She also wants to know if they cause me any stress. Before I can answer, tears are rolling down my cheeks. What has this woman done to me? I am falling apart! Who cries during a massage?! Of course they cause me stress!
 
She murmurs that she knows how challenging it is to raise children, because she has five of her own. By validating my struggles and saying all the things I need to hear, she turns the massage into a therapy session, which means my emotional state is now as pulpy as my muscles.     
 
Maybe it’s the warmth of the Soviet afghan or her soothing guttural voice or the way she very kindly causes me bodily pain. Whatever it is, I’m sold on Natasha.
 
When my massage is over, I feel emptied of all anxiety. Not only has she pounded out every ounce of frustration from my muscles, but she’s also managed to scour the dim corners of my mind. I make another appointment with her (how could I not?) and stumble to my car feeling light-hearted, optimistic and healthy. I feel – to quote Natasha – connected. It’s as if my entire being has been aligned.
 
As a mother, how often do I feel aligned? Never, but I suspect it’s something that might be good for me. If I can achieve this state of relaxation, even if it’s only once a month, maybe I can learn to better read the signs of stress as they accumulate in my body and deal with them before it’s too late.     
 
“There really is something to this mind-body stuff, isn’t there?” I exclaim to myself in wonder.
 
And then I drive home and proceed to not have sluggish digestion. Once. Twice. Three times. All in the same afternoon.