For some reason, every boyfriend I’ve ever had has totally sucked at giving massages. They’d either do a couple half-assed shoulder squeezes and give up, or they’d act like they knew what they were doing when they didn’t and press ridiculously hard into some random area, which would turn out to be my ribcage, which would subsequently leave me feeling worse.
The massages I get at Body Blitz are pretty amazing, but spa treatments like that can be expensive, too. Sometimes, if my muscles are really aching, I’ll head to the nearest shopping mall and use one of their coin-operated chairs.
Recently, I was thinking about splurging on one of those things you put under your neck or a battery-powered gadget like this.
But then green fate stepped in and provided a solution in the form of a new friend, who turned out to be a registered massage therapist. At first, I thought, “Yeah, whatever — who isn’t a registered massage therapist these days?” Then he put his hand on my neck and suddenly everything melted. Knots that I’d previously thought to be solidified broke down like they were made of overcooked spaghetti.
It reminded me why we have massage therapists in the first place: these people, unlike a machine, can feel exactly where they should be putting pressure, and how much of it is needed. They’re surely safer than those mall chairs with the moving lumps, and best of all, they don’t require any electricity or batteries. Maybe a Power Bar or a pint of beer or something, but I’d say that’s a pretty good deal.
So from now on, the only massages I’ll get will be real ones.
Image courtesy of Woodlands Massage
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Posted by gettinggreen
