T Minus 7

So as part of my preparations for Spain I went to have a deep tissue massage at Fabu Spa in Decatur on Friday. Rightly you are now questioning how a deep tissue massage helps me to prepare for Spain. I am not sure it does, but give me time and I'll think of a sound line of reasoning. Understand, I don't regularly indulge in luxury pampering, (that's not to say that I couldn't get used to it), but there is a very good reason for splurging this time: my masseuse straight up yelled at me.

See, two weeks ago while driving, my right shoulder seized up and decided to have a full on muscle fiber freak-out and practically screamed at me to "get a fucking massage you asshole! Can't ya see I'm in pain here?". I have admittedly been carrying a lot of stress in my body since the divorce, and who was I to argue with my seemingly fuming deltoid, plus I really am trying to do that whole "listening to your body" thing.

So I called up Tina with the Mr. Miyagi hands and got a half-hour Swedish, at the end of which blissful indulgence she sat directly across from me (who is still lying nekked and trapped on the massage table) and with the gravitas of an undertaker said, "Kristin, we need to talk." Talk? Huh? Ok. You know it's bad when your masseuse says, "we need to talk." "How bad is it?" I asked, not at all prepared for her definitive condemnation of the shape of my muscular system. "Guuurl, you need a full on, full body overhaul. You've got speed bumps all up and down your back, (speed bumps?) I can feel the tension everywhere. Here (she got up and moved to my calves), here (she patted my thighs), here (my shoulders). I'm talkin' a full body, hour long, deep tissue." Thus she laid the direness of my dilapidation on me. Um. Ok. I meekly acquiesced under her stern command and that is how I ended up with face down in the little padded ring and buck nekked on a massage table for a second time in less than two weeks.

The thing about deep tissue massage is, it fucking hurts. I am not sure what the philosophy is here: you must inflict pain to relieve pain? you can only achieve a state of true relaxation after your thigh fat has been painfully kneaded and beat back down like a good sourdough?

But let me tell you, I needed it. After this last year my body really does look and feel like something the cat dragged in after she ate it and then regurgitated it, like Michael Vick's dog fighting ring used it for dog bait, like it was sent through the car wash without the car. It eeks, it creaks, it hurts in the morning when I get up and later on for no apparent reason. I feel old enough to have known Cleopatra personally and been dismissed from her court for being displeasing to the eye. I can pretty truthfully point to one ass cheek and say, "here's Ben," and point to the other and say, "and here's Jerry." Yes people, I gained 63, count 'em, 63 lbs in eight months. (There are times while writing this blog that I am tempted to wail about just how hard this past year and a half was for me, even though I am trying to move beyond that. But I think 63 lbs in eight months says all I need to say about how straight up bad it was). For about 18 months now I have been walking around with some kind of chronic cough with accompanying brightly colored phlegm, and my complexion decided to stage a game of battleship on my face: "E-5. I'll put another zit on your nose, effectively sinking your aircraft carrier. Ha!"

Yes, my body has been alternating between rebellion and shut-down, and I feel it. But the pilgrimage is about physical renewal as much as spiritual (let's be honest, I hope to knock out at least some of that 63 while I'm hiking like a mad woman). And the massage fits into the whole physical renewal program too. I just hope, I really truly hope, it all works. Cuz folks, I really do want to get my fabulous back.