I went this morning for a massage to try and recover some mobility in my left hip; it’s been very painful since the accident and this week it was so tight and locked that my leg was having periodic numbness. Fun times! I had a male masseuse, which was a new experience for me… also I was at more of a medical massage therapy clinic as opposed to a spa with RMTs on staff.
At spas you are paying extra for the cucumber water, cutesy names for every treatment, and cushy massage tables. At the clinic, the table is in a spartan office with nary a plant or incense burner to be seen, and the music coming from the iPod is Mozart sonatas rather than some tweetly new agey stuff with birds and pan flutes.
My masseuse, a small and dapper fellow named Mike, has thumbs of iron. IRON. A few times he hit pressure points that made the most bizarre things happen; he’d press on my lower back and all my toes would start tingling, for example. By the end of the hour, I was drifting off to sleep while imagining a world wherein I won $50 million in the lottery and paid for a live-in Mike to just work on all my kinks every night before I crawl off to bed.
I would gladly have tipped Mike for the fantastic massage, but hey! another difference from the spa! At an actual massage treatment facility, there is no expectation of a tip. No space for a tip on the credit card slip. It’s funny how not being pressured to leave a tip made me want to leave one. Spas should take note.
Anyway, I got home feeling better than I have for weeks and suddenly, I’m nesting.
All at once bits of my house are driving me crazy, because what kind of mother brings a baby home to a house where the coat closet looks like that?
I cleaned up my bedroom, which always looks like the “before” on some home organizing show, with the intention of moving the pack & play in so the baby can sleep near us (assuming it won’t want to be right in the bed. Harry did, Ron didn’t. But I’d like to be prepared for either eventuality). That’s fine, that’s sensible. But then I was overcome by this desire to clear off the bookcase and make it look tidy. So I did that. Even though believe me, there are other jobs that needed doing first.
I’m eyeing the hall closet next, which is a poorly-designed deep-but-narrow thing that has become a repository for all those things that can’t be tossed out but don’t really have a place to be, either.
And then I want to clear out the compartments in the coffee table / storage bench in the living room, because clearly an infant will be deeply disturbed by a hidden bin stuffed full of broken crayons and scrap paper.
When I had my last massage, at a fancy spa, I came home and just wanted to sit with my feet up and drink more cucumber water. For hours. Mike, on the other hand, seems to have infused me with some sort of freakish desire to clean all the things.
So there you have it. Instead of putting up the outside Christmas decorations like I’d planned, I’m instead a crazed cleaning devil-woman with baby-soft oil-infused skin and a desire to get everything looking Exactly The Way I Like It before my hip seizes up again.