Massaging Stress

     I eat stress faster than I excrete it.  Lately I've been stuffing myself with stress, gorging on it in till I'm about to burst.  At the same time, I'm excreting it even slower, unable to find the time to release it by any of my usual methods.

     It's growing into a serious problem.

     Putting aside the long-term health issues, the weight loss, the receding hairline, the sunken eyes, the new edge to my personality, the fatigue, the hollowness, the jitters and the inability to concentrate for more than a minute on anything other than revenge fantasies, I have one symptom that urgently needs treatment right away:  I cannot move my neck. 

     Last night my neck muscles, having been tightened well beyond normal tolerances, froze, completely immobilizing my head when I woke up this morning and greeted the new day with howls of pain.  And my other muscles are constricting as well, causing my back to bow as my torso slowly curls into a permanent fetal position.  My arms, legs and fingers are feeling arthritic, their muscles painfully resisting my attempts to move them in anything approaching the usual range of motion.  This will soon prevent any typing or writing, which would in turn shut down Outer Life, so something must be done.  Now.

     Unfortunately I cannot stop the stress, at least in the next decade or two, so I must resort to a more expedient treatment.  I will not loosen up with drugs or alcohol.  That only defers it, or so I've learned.  It isn't feasible to hop on the next flight to Tahiti.  I checked.  And I can't cast aside my cool-calm-and-controlled facade, carefully constructed over the decades, just to scream at my underlings and throw my phone through the window and kick a hole in the wall, much as that would blow off a little steam and maybe earn me a little respect around the water cooler, for I care too much what others think of me to ever lose it like that.

     No, what I need is a massage.  A professional, deep-tissue, leave you floating like a jellyfish massage.  Or so my wife, surveying my tortuously torqued and twisted body, insists.

     But I've never had a real professional massage.  And that's by choice, for I have some unresolved issues with massages.

     I get uncomfortable when people serve me.  I feel like I'm imposing on them.  And I'm certain they secretly despise me.  I know, because I've served time in the service sector, and believe me, we all despised you.  Every last one of you.  In recent years I've had to accept a certain level of service in my life, but I haven't grown accustomed to it.  For instance, while my gardener's mere presence no longer gnaws at my innards, I still must avoid him and his steely-eyed stare.  But there’s no avoiding the masseuse.

     I'm more of a spartan than a sybarite.  Pleasure comes through hard work and discipline, its appreciation only enhanced by denial.  A massage is too easy.  You just lie there and fork over some cash at the end.  It doesn't seem right.  It's decadent.  And I don't deserve it.  At least that's what I'll tell myself the minute I start to enjoy it, which in turn will trigger pangs of guilt, which in turn will cause me to tense up, which in turn will substitute pain for pleasure and strip away the possibility for any positive therapeutic value, making the whole massage completely pointless.

     But what if I don't enjoy it?  Will I feel pressure to pretend that I do, groaning in pseudo-pleasure in a pathetic attempt to avoid a scene and curry favor with an incompetent masseuse who already despises me (see above)?  And once I start pretending, it will only get harder and harder to stop, dooming me to a lifetime of mediocre massages that exacerbate, not alleviate, the stress that started me down this path in the first place.  And let's not forget the constant self-loathing I'll feel each time I plop my timidly miserable body back on the table.  Breaking up is too hard to do.

     Or what if I enjoy it too much, if you know what I mean?  The closest I've ever come to a massage is foreplay and, well, I've been conditioned over the years to respond a certain specific way to that.  How do I know I won't respond the same way to a massage?  My body has a history of rising to the occasion without first consulting with me.  So I'll be lying there, tensed up, trying to regulate the pleasure lest it get out of hand, constantly nagging my body not to enjoy this too much.  Not the most conducive mental state for a relaxing massage, I'd think.

     And this, I suppose, is the source of the great massage debate:  Masseur or masseuse?  I am very secure in my heterosexuality, but if I were to lose control on the table (see above) in the presence of male masseur, I'm sure that would lead to all sorts of anguish and self-doubt and that's just a recipe for more stress.  But while I'm inclined to opt for the female masseuse, I'm generally helpless in the presence of females, intoxicated as I am by pretty much every representative of the fairer sex who tries even a little, so I'm concerned that I'll be even more likely to lose control on the table which would lead to all sorts of anguish and self-doubt and that's just a recipe for more stress.  I'm boxed in, caught between a rock and a very hard place.  The tension is already rising. 

     I'm not a prude or ashamed of my body or anything like that, but I'm used to wearing clothes when meeting complete strangers.  It's one of my little quirks.  Sure, I know that to her I'm just a slab of meat that tips, seen it all a million times before, don't flatter yourself honey, but at another level I'm prone to these irrational but painful bouts of self-consciousness, especially when I'm stripped down in front of someone who's about to pore over every inch of my real estate, warts and all.  It's that whole soft underbelly thing, literally; it's the ultimate tangible manifestation of that vast vulnerability I've dedicated my life to concealing. 

     So this is supposed to relax me?  To relieve my stress?  To leave me floating blissfully, like a jellyfish?  The drugs and alcohol are looking much better.  Tahiti too.

Comments

[stephenesque]

You have a gardener!: this is your problem. Gardening is a wondeful way to relax - so fire the hired swine and do it yourself. Might I suggest a Japanese rock garden? Just avoid adding anything that jingles in the wind, those bloody things really set my teeth on edge.

[Grubby]

You wouldn't just be a slab of meat to her. My cousin is a masseuse. Her close friends are masseuses, too. Hearing how they describe their clients has convinced me to never -- NEVER! -- have a massage. I just can't take that level of criticism. I can't! So, look, in case you decide to forego the liquor and the drugs and get a massage, here's a tip (even though I doubt you need it): even if they seem receptive or inviting, don't attempt smalltalk. They all seem to reserve a particularly fiery hatred for clients who say more than a few words.

[Misspent]

Why don't you do all three? There are some great drinks to be had in Tahiti, my favorite is simply called "Tahiti Drink" and comes in a cardboard carton like orange juice or milk does. You can also arrange for a nice massage at one of the resorts. I can't help you out on the drug front, but I do remember some sketchy places in Papeete where you could probably score some. You can get drunk, high, and shame yourself to no end and when you are done you can stay there and run a dive shop. That sounds like a recipe for a less-stress life.

[R J Keefe]

Masseurs know how to handle unwonted excitments.

[Darko]

How to minimize the body dis-comfort thing?
1) GO to a masseuse, tip BIG before, and then request that you want the full massage to be done with lights turned off. You could even wear one of those sleeping masks to minimize eye contact.
2) Take out your last two tax returns. Go to the Itemized Deductions page and skim down to the Charitable Contributions line. Have you contributed generously to your local fire dept.? If you have, drive yourself down to the station, with the evidence of your contribution. Minimally explain your stressed out situation. Perhaps, for an additional small donation, they will allow you to be hosed down by their powerful engine-powered water hoses. These hoses are known to be able to knock down fully locked doors. They'll certainly straighten you out in a short time.
3) If the massage is still the thing, be sure you go to a place that specializes in hiring Russian or Korean masseuses. At least their commentary about your body's ills and actions will be in a language totally incomprehensible to you. That and a bottle of ice-cold vodka should do the trick.
3) Supposedly, chimpanzees and lemurs are being trained, even as I write, to replace human masseurs. The demand for non-judgmental massaging seems to be high; you're not alone. This should work out for you, unless of course you've got some cross-species thing going that you haven't blogged about yet.

[e]

just thank the lord you're a man; you'd never survive a gynecologist.

[Janos Biro]

Why don't you deal with the root of the problem? Read Daniel Quinn! I bet you will be so much stressed that you will never feel stressed again.

[rannva]

Amen to what e said.
My husband also hates the idea of getting a massage. He says he doesn't like the idea of some stranger touching him.
I always ask for a female masseuse. I don't like the idea of getting a massage by a male, especially when I am in a situation where my goal is total relaxation and nothing else.

[Kai Jones]

The place I go for massage also has hot tubs, showers, and a sauna. For $7 extra you can get a massage sandwich: half an hour in the hot tub or sauna (or alternating between them) before the massage and another half hour after.

[Nate]

Have a couple of drinks and go to a strip-club. Objectify the dancers until you can enjoy yourself. Learn to ignore the unpleasant things you know they're thinking about you. OR tip and drink enough that you come to believe they really like you as much as they say they do.

Once you can do that, you're ready for a massage.

Seriously, though - a friend of mine was a masseuse and I helped her assemble some furniture in exchange for a massage. I was hooked, and actually paid for a couple after that. Once she moved away, though, I never had another. I guess knowing the masseuse makes a big difference.

But try the strip club thing, anyway. I think it might help.