life in this republic

honey as massage medium

My dear friend, Anna, gifted me with a honey massage for my birthday. I love massages so I was very excited to have received this most thoughtful of presents. It took a few months for me to book it as I had been too sick and often too busy to find the time. Finally, last week I was able to go in for the massage. It began well. The massuese works from her home, but has transformed her front room into a cozy spa retreat. She turned on some soft background music then began to brush my back with this stiff brush. It was strangely invigorating and relaxing at the same time. The CD started to skip. She ignored it. It became worse. Then she mumbled some profanity and switched it to the local radio station. Bon Jovi blared away. Barring the Apocalypse, Bon Jovi is the worst thing I could think of happening right now. Silently, I endured. Soon, I felt warm sticky liquid being poured on my back. Then a rubbing sensation. Then my worst fears were realized. Honey massage is less massage than hundreds of band-aids being thoughtlessly torn from my back. Over and over and over. For a half an hour. As she repeatedly lifted her hands from my back, pulling with them the skin, I felt that I was being tortured. I wished for it to be over. Then, blissfully , it was. Honey was being washed from my back, hot stones applied to my spine and then an all-too-brief massage.

Next time, regular massage, sans condiments.