My first (and likely last) couples massage

My husband is a dear, sweet man. For Mother’s Day, he thought it would be a nice gesture to give me a gift certificate for a one hour, full body massage. I do love massages after all, and I always look forward to our MOPS spa nights because of them. Of course those are chair massages. Hopefully, my words and expression upon receiving said gift did not betray my true feelings of panic. 

A full body massage? Don’t you have to strip down naked for that? And what exactly do they mean by “full body”? Is that to be understood literally?

In the following weeks, he continued to ask me when I was going to use my certificate. I finally had to level with the man. I was just too scared to go by myself. And so, being the dear, sweet man that he is, he volunteered to go with me. (And to consider it his Father’s Day gift, no less!)

Anyone who knows my husband knows that he tends to be a wee bit puritanical in his ways. If you’d like to see his ears turn red, simply throw out the word “sex” or “tampon” the next time you're in his company. It is for this reason that I know it was a true sacrifice on his part to accompany me on this adventure.

He confessed to me as we were eating just before our scheduled massage time that he was nervous. My poor darling. At this point, I was simply looking forward to it. After all, my Buddy would be by my side. We would face this thing together. Head on!

And then, the reign of terror begin. 

The particular massage studio that he had chosen boasted an Asian massage, and apparently that wasn’t just the name of the technique. The lady who greeted us was very kind, but she certainly spoke with some broken English. It is for this reason that neither one of us was clear on what exactly we were supposed to be doing with our skivvies. Isaiah (naturally) interpreted her instructions to include leaving them on, so on they stayed! We covered ourselves securely with the provided towels and awaited our first massage experience.

All was going well for the first few minutes until the towel was moved down. Waaaaaay down. I was prepared for this of course, but not for what came next…

Is she…? Is she actually rolling down my underwear right now? What in the blue blazes?

Immediately following the underwear rolling was the oil. My thoughts went a little something like this, “Oh, ok, now it makes sense. She probably just didn’t want to get oil on... Danger! Danger, Will Robinson!! There is some definite hand-to-buttock contact going on here!” 

Call me old-fashioned, but I’m not a big fan of complete strangers caressing my backside. However, when she stayed above my waistline, the massage felt pretty good. (Aside from the brief moment when I suspected her of using the Vulcan nerve pinch.) And besides, I distracted my uncomfortable thoughts with the knowledge that my beloved was enduring the same underwear folding and butt fondling that I was. In fact, I had to suppress the giggles at the mental picture of his masseuse lowering his britches and dousing his cheeks with oil.

Our tables were positioned in such a way that I couldn’t actually peek over at him without raising my head up and being obvious about it, and I wasn’t exactly in a bold frame of mind. At any rate, I think I did fairly well imagining the scenario at the time.

Before too long, my undies were returned to their proper position, and the masseuse moved on to my legs. Praise God for small blessings. 

My relief was short-lived, however, as a new method of “rolling” was employed. This time around my mom panties were transformed into a makeshift thong. Awkward and uncomfortable. Nice.

At this point, the masseuse actually mounted the table and positioned herself in between my ankles, and I was terrified as to what was coming next. I clenched my buttocks as tightly as I could, willing that to be the worst of it. Is nothing sacred?! My fears were for naught, as no more re-positioning took place. I assume she just climbed up there to enable her to reach the whole of my legs (aka buttocks included) for the next round of massaging. 

Last but not least, we reached the concluding foot/calf massage. Which to my dread, required turning over. Beg pardon? I found myself hoping that the pre-trib rapture theory were true, and that Jesus would come in that very moment.

Once again I had over-reacted, though, since she politely held the towel in a manner that afforded me some privacy. Really, that probably helped her out as much as it did me. I have four kids, and my gut clearly reflects that information.

The foot/calf massage was by far the most relaxing part of this experience. The lights were almost completely dimmed, adding to the relaxation factor, and there was nothing awkward about it. Well, until the very end, when she employed some sort of strange slapping/clapping maneuvers. I felt like it was some sort of secret handshake ritual that I had never learned. Either that or a type of karate drill. An accompanying “hyah!” would have been appropriate. 

At long last, the lights came back on, and the masseuses left the room. We quickly dressed while quietly laughing together, eager to get out of earshot and reminisce about our experience. My suspicions that he had felt violated were confirmed, and we agreed to not schedule any more massages in the near future.

But every cloud has a silver lining, right? I try to turn each new experience in my life into an opportunity for learning. This time around, I was able to take several lessons away.
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1. My husband is the man. He's such a good sport. Really, I already knew that, but sometimes it’s good to have a reminder.

2. On a similar note, I had forgotten how much fun it is to try new things. It may have been super awkward, but it sure was amusing! Neither one of us will forget the experience, I’m certain. I’m looking forward to more adventures with my buddy.

3. The next time I'd like a massage, I'll simply ask my husband.