Therapeutic Escape (Help me!)

When it comes to massages, I am not someone who looks to be beaten within an inch of their life. I have never once asked a massage therapist to up the pressure, and more often than not, I spend the duration of a treatment wondering how long it will take for my face to return to its normal arrangement now that I have essentially been kneaded into the bed. That, and secretly hoping it’s nearly over. Ordinarily, a massage would take place at a spa or salon, with dim lighting (I assume this is designed to protect victims from the shock of post-massage face), relaxing music (I hate to think what would happen to global panpipe sales if salon culture died) and an aroma of jasmine. You pay to be able to step into this environment, be pummelled, be encouraged to come back, and then step out again to rejoin your life with 10% more rotation in your neck.

My recent exploration of ‘home massage therapy’ has made me see that these are precisely the things I want to pay for. It’s not about the skill of the therapist, it turns out, it’s about being able to escape. And I mean that in more ways than one.

I booked Nadira to come to our home and give me a massage on a Saturday 3 weeks ago. I say ‘booked’ because I thought that’s what it was at the time. I now realise I would be better to use a word like ‘accepted’ or ‘welcomed’. From our first exchange, it was clear that this is very much a servant-master relationship, and I am not the master. On the day in question I was parenting alone, but I hoped to squeeze a 60 minute massage in while Jasper was down for his mega nap. In all honesty, I was too embarrassed to do it during the week while a nanny looked after my child and a helper cleaned my home. I don’t want to be that person, but sadly, it didn’t pay to be sneaky. Firstly, Nadira was 45 minutes late and secondly, Jasper decided to take an earlier nap that day.

Having to wait for 45 minutes before she graced me with her presence confirmed my growing suspicions; this was really not for me. I prefer to make an appointment and show up at the time stipulated. I don’t enjoy waiting for people. My initial contact with Nadira had been at the recommendation of our neighbour who raved about not only the quality of the massages but also the convenience of being able to do it in your own home. The idea of minimal disruption to my daily routine got the better of me and I decided to give it a go. The time and location was confirmed and I assumed we were all set, when suddenly I received a barrage of missed calls, followed by the instruction: Mam. Please get good massage oil. *prayer hands emoji*

Ah. It’s BYO.

This came one day before the massage when I had no time to go and buy oils, much less any idea where to search. After a conversation that included a telling off (her to me) and an apology (me to her), we agreed that she would bring some oils and I would reimburse her. It was this little expedition that led to her lateness. I had expected her to arrive about 15 minutes early to set up (you know, to dim the lights, crank up the panpipes and waft jasmine), so when 1pm rolled around and there was still no sign of her, I called to find out where she was. I also wanted to explain that time was not on our side, as far as the sleeping baby was concerned.

After a moment’s silence, she said “Someone else can look after the baby”. I had a quick look to see if I could find anyone else hidden in the apartment and rolled my eyes. No. No, someone else couldn’t look after the baby. But for now, at least, he was still sleeping and perhaps we had time for a 30 minute treatment, if she could get here soon. Her soon and my soon were quite different, and she arrived some time later. Once she was in the apartment, we spent a good while establishing that I really didn’t have any of the necessary equipment; small plastic bowl? Jasper’s wombat bowl. Extra towels? Jasper’s muslin cloths. Under sheet? Jasper’s (as yet unused) potty training mattress protector. OK, so maybe Jasper had all the necessary equipment. Thank goodness he was there to save the day. Cushions, pillows and covers were roughly flung from our bed and replaced with this motley collection of items while I hovered awkwardly. Calm and relaxing this wasn’t. Quiet, this also wasn’t, and just as she seemed satisfied with her cloth folding and sheet straightening, a loud cry of “Mama” came from Jasper’s room.

“OK. You put him back to sleep. I wait.”

I haven’t quite decided if Nadira has children, but if she does, they are either robots or she has the traditional family set up whereby there is always someone else available to parent or babysit. As I went into Jasper’s room and scooped him up, I explained to her that this was it. He had napped and now he was no longer napping. There is no magic button to press to put him down for an extra hour, especially as by this time it was 2pm, the time from which he is a ticking time bomb, capable of waking at any moment. I didn’t let her finish her suggestion that he play on the floor for an hour while she attacked me, as Jasper had already wriggled free from his sleeping bag and was running off to find his cricket bat.

The only thing to do was reschedule. I don’t know how many times she told me she would come back the same day at 8pm ‘once he is sleeping’ or ‘when your husband can look after him’. Neither do I remember how many times I tried to explain that he wasn’t a machine on which we could set an 8pm timer and that my husband already had plans that night. At some point she gave up, and we reluctantly agreed that the following Wednesday would be better. The reluctance on my part was due in part to my embarrassment that my helpers would be witness to such opulence, but mainly because I had decided that perhaps it wasn’t worth the faff. I imagine there was some reluctance on her part to offer her services to someone whose house was so woefully ill equipped and who was apparently unwilling to drop everything to accommodate her poor time keeping.

Our second attempt went considerably more smoothly, mainly because this time I was prepared; sheets and cloths on the bed before she arrived, wombat bowl at the ready. The the embarrassment was still there, as was the overwhelming feeling that this was far more hassle than it was worth, especially I was now apparently her lackey. She had upsold me a 90 minute session instead of 60 (upsold = bullied into) this time, and I therefore had 90 minutes marinating in intoxicating, herbal oil fumes to grit my teeth and decide this was absolutely not for me. As she slathered on the oil and ground away at the knots in my back, I formulated my politest “Thank you, but no thank you”. I have no idea how, but after she concluded my treatment and flounced out of the door leaving a tangle of oil-stained muslins on the bed, and oily streaks all over the bathroom mirror, I realised I had committed to another session. She's a force, I’ll give her that. Even as I cleaned up the mess and put the sheets on the hottest wash possible to remove the nauseating smell of whatever ‘not good’ oil she had used, I was flummoxed by how I had ended up roped into doing this all over again. It was at this point that I realised that what I really pay for in a massage is the escapism - the ability to completely switch off for an hour, to recharge, and then to leave and go back to my life. All the set up and clean up steals any chance of escape, as does the single closed door separating me from whatever mischief Jasper is getting up to on the other side of it. Not to mention that our apartment now permanently smells like a toxic apothecary.

After my second session, she roped me into a third. I think perhaps there is something in the way she expresses her concern as to what’s going on in my back and neck that makes me believe that deep down she really does know Aryuveda. Or perhaps I am just scared of her large looming presence and incredibly strong hands. Either way, when I receive her message of “Can I come this week Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday or Friday. What time. Please reply”, I do reply.

Let's hope the new oil's superior packaging is a true reflection of it's superior quality.