Dear Massage Therapist | From An Uptight, Stressed, And Oh So Tired Mama - Huffington Post

[massage]

Every mom needs “me” time. It’s crucial to maintaining our sanity. One of the ways I like to indulge in self-care is to get a massage. It’s usually only once a year, after Christmas or my birthday or Mother’s Day, using the gift card that I got for Christmas or my birthday or Mother’s Day. Usually, it’s an hour long massage done by a woman and I leave feeling pretty good.


This year it was for my birthday. Almost 2 months after my birthday, but nonetheless much needed and appreciated. So much appreciated in fact, that I penned this ode to my massage therapist soon after my moment of total tranquility.


Dear Massage Therapist:


You have no idea what you did for me on that cold and rainy spring night, do you? You gave me a 90-minute break from my children who choose to scream rather than talk and think it’s a good idea to smash cereal all over my floors rather than just eat it for breakfast or lunch or dinner. I can’t remember what meal I was slacking at that day.


For those, let’s face it, too few minutes, I drifted away to a place where I have never been before. You did that. Who knew that having the inside of my elbows and my unshaven knees massaged could feel so amazing.


Speaking of unshaven knees…


I have to apologize. I didn’t have time that morning in the shower to shave above my knees. You see, I have triplets that love to invade my space – even in the shower. So, I just hurry and get out before I get too claustrophobic. I really hate starting my day in panic mode. If I had known that you would be massaging my “hips” (aka my butt) I would have totally shaved all the way up and maybe even put my own lotion on before visiting you.


Your lotion was amazing, though. Did you plan on using the entire bottle on me? Or was it that my skin was just so dry that it soaked up before you had a chance to finish massaging almost, not quite, every inch of my body?


I only have one complaint…


Well, it’s not really a complaint as I probably would have done the same thing. I heard a slight snicker when you started on my back. You immediately saw my tattoo, didn’t you? It’s okay. It’s probably not every day that you see a thirty-something mom with a butterfly tramp stamp.


Or, maybe you do (it was the “thing” when I was in college) but I just didn’t seem like the type and you were caught off guard. No biggie. My husband still chuckles when he sees it. Let’s just say I used to be that girl and now I have a permanent remembrance of the time I lost my 20-year-old mind and got a butterfly (ugh, a butterfly?) tattoo on my lower back.


My husband had a complaint too…


It’s so stupid. I was scheduled to spend an hour and a half with of pure pleasure with a woman. Instead, to my surprise, I got you. I explained to my husband that even though you copped a bit of a feel there was nothing for him to be worried about. Because the last thing in the world that would turn a gay man on is my bosom.


And then he was worried that I was turned on by you and your magical masseuse hands. If by turned on he means so completely relaxed, daydreaming about sleeping in a huge hotel bed all by myself while binging on Netflix, then yes, I was totally turned on.


He’ll get over it.


And I’ll be back…


It may be a year from now, but I will be back in your magical hands again. Ninety minutes with you is like a week long beach vacation, friend – mind, body, and soul soothing. I may have left greasier than a pig on the 4th of July, but I was uber relaxed and ready ignore whatever craziness the triplets threw at me by telling them to just go ask daddy.


Thanks, from this uptight, stressed, and oh so tired mama.


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