I had been seeing her for about a year—12 whole months—so I thought that what we had was special. But apparently I was nothing more to her than just another body to use.
Yes, it’s true.
My massage therapist quit.
Now before you go rolling your eyes at the fact I “indulge” in a monthly massage, know that it’s in conjunction with chiropractic care to help with chronic neck and back issues I have and not at some fancy spa.
Note: I feel a little funny saying I go to the chiropractor, only because it kind of sounds a) pretentious, although the visits are medically necessary and b) like a dinosaur, which sounds cool but then disappointing when it’s a doctor and not a dinosaur. So getting a half hour massage once a month made me feel indulgent if by “indulgent” you mean “not in so much pain I can’t lift up my arm.”
Anyway, I called to make my monthly appointment and was told I could see the other massage therapist they have on their (small) staff because (insert name of traitor here) had quit.
Whoa, whoa, whoa!
Back up the traction train here, my friends.
Quit? As in, she will no longer change all her plans and come back once a month to work out the pain that I have, the pain that has transferred from my back and neck into my heart that is now breaking at this sudden news?
I was told that work “just wasn’t her thing,” and that she was going to pack up and roam around traveling without consulting with me first about this abrupt change in her lifestyle and how it would affect me and mine.
This might seem selfish of me to be upset, but you have to understand where I’m coming from—which I admit, is a purely selfish place.
But it’s not easy for me to form a relationship with someone who I not only let into a little bit of my life every month through muffled mumblings as my face was smashed down into the table, but that I also let her touch me.
The whole “touching” thing is a big deal, as I don’t even like people touching my keyboard at work.
Plus, we were already past the awkwardness that usually accompanies the standard massage situation—we could talk, but not talk too much; if my stomach made some weird noise or vice versa, it was simply ignored; unlike other people in my life, she knew just the amount of pressure I could take before I freaked out.
Oh, the memories.
So as you can see, I’m still lingering in the first stages of this break-up and trying to move on with my life. I can’t deny that it happened. Anger just makes my neck worse, therefore necessitating a massage and continuing this cruel cycle that woman has started.
Damn you, hippie masseuse! Damn you!
OK. Maybe I’m still in the second stage of anger, but I do plan on putting myself back out on the market, so I’m leaning more towards “acceptance.” After all, there are a lot of massage therapists that would be lucky to have me as a client—including the one my chiropractor has set me up with, a rebound rub-down of sorts.
As they say, time heals all wounds.
And a deep-tissue massage can help, too.
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