ravings, rantings and ramblings
I am convinced that spas and massages are over-rated. Completely over-rated. I have three massages behind me, which makes me pretty experienced about the subject as well. I don’t understand what the fuss is all about. All they do is slap on lots of oil, press all you want as if the human body is nothing more than a pizza dough, then steam in the damn thing and you are ready to go. This massage and spa routine is almost the recipe for making home-made pizza or pasta. And the stress relief… oh-ho don’t even mention it. I think they add on much more than give relief.
Wife and I were at the Al Jazeera Resort and Spa somewhere between Dubai and Abu Dhabi. We took a few days off from the boring office routine and decided to rejuvenate our marriage, so there we were. No doubt a good place to be, very beautiful, good beach, great resort, loved the swimming pool and the bar that came with it. Then suddenly wifey decided that she wanted to gift me a spa and massage treatment. I showed controlled excitement. I wasn’t really elated and was trying to dissuade her. She knew of the last two accounts. But she is a tough cookie to persuade. I have been driving a lot and this is the least she could do to make me feel good, said she. Oh, I love this emotion, but why spa and massage? I could think of 3 different ways of beating stress but she would hear none of it. All my pleas fell on deaf ears as she went ahead and booked me into the spa. And just to make me feel better, she walked me to the spa as if to acclimatize me.
“Is the spa open…?”
“Who is calling?” What sort of a reply is that!!! My wife asked again, if the spa was open and the same androgynous voice bellowed back. And in the next three seconds, I came face to face with a specimen of the female form that could give any sane man, a good running.
It was the spa and massage owner and masseuse as well. She had dreadlocks that made her look like she walked out of the Predator in costume. She was as tall as I am, better built than me, with more muscles and a voice that made me look and feel like a teenager before puberty. Oh my god! I could possibly surrender myself into the hands of this male… errr… female! I could be jeopardizing my own life and future as well. And look at my wife, without blinking an eye-lid, she wrote out my name and mobile number and fixed me up for tomorrow at 10.
And just when I was thinking that she would go with me to the spa, she donned her swimsuit and went swimming in the pool. Oh did I tell you that we had a private garden that led to the pool! Oh heck, I couldn’t be bothered about that now, I was feeling deserted at war, only one standing, had to fight my own battles and protect myself as well. I trudged along to the centre and submitted myself to fate and the hands of the woman He-Man, who had a smile on her face… for what!!!
I will call that, the face-hole bed. Ones they use for back massages where your face isn’t turned any other way, but you look down thru the face-hole. Yes, of course, I was attired like you have to for any normal massage… I was in my bare minimums… only my brief… the briefest thing between a man and his honour. I felt the first few drops of oil on my legs and then it started. Thank god nobody could see my expressions, from the face-hole… they were worth a movie! It feels so weird. Her hands and fingers go just anywhere and in ways that my body isn’t accustomed to. Feet went upto legs and that went upto to thighs… I was protesting in my head… but they never gave any discount during any physical assault, not that I know of.
The woman came and stood by my head and was massaging my back. By which time I was experiencing newer pains, pains I never had. Is this why people get massages done? To get newer pains and forget the ones you had? I am feeling a tad embarrassed to write about how her hands went everywhere. I was turned over. No, I turned over myself and the same routine happened. Honestly, front body was a better experience than the back. Slightly ticklish, though. And there I was, with my eyes half closed, watching the image of mountain heave over me. I swear, I could shoot this as a scene from ‘Hercules in Dubai’ or something like that!
I was so oily that I could moonwalk from any side you wanted. So oily, that you could cook two day’s meals. I showered four times to get that slimy oily feeling off my body. That done I walked out… wondering was this what I paid for? Paid for getting myself loaded with oil and providing a visual treat (if any) to some unknown masseuse?
This was exactly what I was discussing with my wife, when I came back. Our first massage was when we went on our honeymoon to Langkawi, Malaysia. We decided to get a couple massage done and these middle aged Malaysian women came to our hotel room and did our massage together. That was the most violating experience for me, to have alien hands touch me. At the cost of sounding like a sissy, this is what it is. I don’t like unknown hands to touch me.
That done, the second time was when we two decided to get some stress relief thru some south Indian Ayurvedic massage. That was worse than the first experience. Two Mallu men just went at me, while I was on a wooden plank like a dead body and I could smell the repulsive oil all over. And when it all finished, they had the cheap audacity to show me some money thrown over the counter, to elicit some tip. No way, you coconuts! Getting to feel me up with oil and watch me in a tissue loin cloth is tip enough for both of you. Go fantasize!
And then, this one. I wonder if these are the stripped down versions, or the poorer cousins of what massages are really supposed to be – a stress-free, happy celebration of who you are, in whatever shape you are. Till I brave the thought of another one, this is the end of the road as far as massages are concerned. If now I need stress relief, I shall ask my wife to double up as my masseuse, and the perks for her, are aplenty!