Star Beacon
April 02, 2008 04:01 pm
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AFTER I RECOVERED FROM FALLING IN THE DOLPHIN TANK AT DOLPHIN COVE IN JAMAICA, I went to the cruise ship’s spa for a little rest and relaxation. To my delight, I won a free hot stone massage.
Sunshine, palm trees ... Oooo la la ... What woman hasn’t fantasized about getting a professional massage in a tropical setting?
Warm oil, soft breezes while strong hands rub our cares away? That’s exactly what I thought when they announced my name as the winner. What I got, however, was something entirely different!
Me: “Hi! I’m Shelley. I’m here for my free massage.”
Receptionist: “Hello. Could you fill out these forms — just a waiver form. Then you’ll be seeing Maria.”
Me: “Maria”
Receptionist: “Yes.”
Me: “Oh.” (Thinking: So much for the fantasy back massage with Antonio Banderas. Did I say Antonio Banderas? I meant Hubby! Of course, Hubby!)
Well, on with the story...
As I went through the checklist of questions — Any allergies? Heart conditions? Lung ailments? Loose bones? Fears of oils, rocks or stones? I suddenly realized there might be more to this massage than I was led to believe. Still I pressed on.
After some introductory pleasantries, Maria led me into a candlelit room with weird music playing, the kind of songs/hum you would expect Madonna to have on when she’s meditating.
Maria: “Hang your clothes up here and slip under the sheets, face down. I’ll be right back.”
My natural flight instinct kicked in, but I resisted it. After all, I’m the modest sort and I started to feel uncomfortable: “Do I have to take off ALL of my clothes? What about my underwear?”
Maria: “You can leave on your panties, if you like.”
She leaves the room.
Me thinking: “Oh my God! Why do I have to take off all my clothes? Why can’t I leave my bra on? Maybe it’s the oil. Yes, that’s it, the bra will get oily. Oh...what am I going to do?”
I hear her coming, dash under the sheets, and put my face down in a hole. Is this a spa or a Gulag?
Maria: “Shelley, are you comfortable?”
Me (shaky): “Yes.”
Maria folds the sheet down to my bottom and said: “Relax, relax.”
Maria begins by placing hot stones on my back and shoulders and then rubbing my back, pouring warm oil on my back and rubbing it while holding hot stones in her hands. She rubbed my shoulders, neck and even my head. Wow my hair is getting a hot oil treatment, I think to myself.
Just when I start to fall into a vegetative state, Maria starts rubbing my lower back and folds the sheet down. I tense up.
Maria: “Relax Shelley, relax.”
She grabs my panties and yanks them down and starts massaging my buttocks.
MY EYES BULGE OUT OF MY HEAD.
Maria: “Reeeeelax, Shelley, reeeeelax.”
Me (thinking): OH GOD!
Maria rubs and rolls and oils my entire backside, including legs, feet. I don’t know what to do.
Maria: “Shelley, you are very tense.”
All I manage to say in a squeaky voice: “I have a stressful job.”
Maria: “OK, now turn over, cover up with the sheet and relax.”
She steps out of the room for a minute.
I flipped over, grabbed the sheet, pulled the sheet up to my chin, straightened out my arms and held it down tight with all my might. My eyes darted around the room, debating whether to grab clothes and run. Too late. She was back.
Maria: “Shelleeee, how do you feel?”
Me: “Fine.”
Maria: “You like the massage so far?”
Me: “You mean it’s not over?”
Maria laughed like I told a joke. Then she took more oil, more stones and started rubbing my feet, which were peeking out from under the sheet. Aaaannndd...she started working up!
Me faking a laugh: “There’s not much to rub on this side. haha.”
Maria just smiled.
Me thinking: “Oh God, please make her stop, make her stop!”
Maria basted me with her oil and kneaded my feet and legs. She then moved to my head and started massaging my head, shoulders and arms — all while I kept a firm grip on the sheets.
I was stiff as a board and never so relieved as when it was over. But, I must say, my skin and hair rarely have been so soft, so supple and smooth.
If only I could have relaxed ... Where was Antonio Banderas when I needed him?
Given staff writer Shelley Terry’s tendency to slip and fall, it’s a wonder she didn’t slide off that massage table and over the side of the cruise ship.
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A SHELLEY TERRY column