“It’s Gettin’ Real”

“Harder! Harder! Harder!” she cried.

I hovered over her body. My full body weight suspended over the narrow distance between us. A light sheet and blanket were all that separated us. Sweat beaded my forehead as I strained to go deeper, deeper.

“Yes! That’s the spot! You can go deeper! Deeper!”

My thumbs felt they might snap off any second as I dug into her upper trapezius muscles with all my might.

“OhhhGoddd! Deeper!!!”

Her cries were beginning to embarrass me. Me? A Massage Therapist with twenty four years of experience – embarrassed!  

But yes, it was true. With the thin walls that separated the treatment rooms, I was worried the woman’s cries might be disturbing or worse – misinterpreted for something else.

My sixty-year-old cheeks flushed with embarrassment and irritation.

“Shhhhh…Please keep it down, Mam. We have other treatments going on and loud noises tend to be disturbing.”

“Sniff…Okay. Sorry.”

Finishing work on the woman’s back I had her turn over on the table, so I could begin working on her legs and feet.

She turned over, sighed contentedly, and then let out a relaxed fart that shook the room for about twenty seconds.

Luckily for me, the room I was working in had open windows. If I had been in a windowless room – I’d have probably been a goner.

Such is the life of a Massage Therapist.

The sixty-minute massage seemed to go on forever as I had to breathe through my mouth most of the time as I didn’t dare to inhale through my nose.

Finally, after massaging the woman’s scalp. I did one last full-body stroke and thanked her for coming to the Spa.

Leaving the room. I made my way to the communal sink.

There I washed my hands thoroughly trying to remove the strong foot odor that had attached itself to my fingers. It took three attempts until my hands smelled like soap, not dirty feet.

While my guest was getting changed into her clothes, I waited outside the room. I had seven more hours of massage work scheduled.

I sagged against the wall exhausted.

Aaaah Fuck.

Since there was a break between treatments I figured I’d sit down for a few minutes in the employee breakroom.

But first, I had to put on my best “Smiley Face,” give Ms. … “Whatever” a glass of water, make profuse expressions of gratitude for Her Patronage, clean and remake my treatment table for my next guest.

I was allotted five minutes to accomplish all these Tasks of Sisyphus by my Employer.

Remaking the table with fresh linen, I reflected on a recent commercial that was being broadcasted on local TV channels. “You too, can have a Lucrative Career in Massage Therapy!” was the upbeat, chirpy announcement. The commercial was sponsored by a prominent School of Massage in my area. 

I snorted derisively when I thought about that one.

When I thought about it – “My Career in Massage Therapy” had barely generated anything above subsistence level over the years.  So either the School of Massage was lying or I was living on another planet.

Still, I had a job and had a nice place to go to every day. 

But being a Massage Therapist is not an easy gig.

In the twenty-four years of massaging people – I have been yelled at, insulted, criticized, had to clean up after incontinent people, been farted on, interrogated about my personal life, suffered endless chatter, tolerated stony silence, missed work because of my gender, massaged feet that would have sent any normal person screaming in terror from the room and finally, I have endured odors from people’s bodies that were beyond human comprehension.

Alright then…

At this point, you might be thinking – This sounds like a Hobbesian Nightmare. Why don’t you get another job? 

It’s complicated.

And depending on the day you’d ask me I’d probably give you a different answer.

On Good Days, I’d say I was making a positive difference in people’s lives, I had employment at a prestigious Spa, and for the most part, I enjoyed the work I was doing on a daily basis.

On Bad Days, I’d tell ya it was all a Cosmic Joke, that I abhorred people, deserved to be paid more, and was tired of being tired all the time.

Today was one of my Bad Days.

My feet hurt, my back ached, my hands were sore and I had a Mother of a tension headache coming on.

Carrying linen out of my room, Therapists dart past me in the hallway in an effort to meet and escort their guests from the waiting area. 

When you work in a busy spa – you don’t walk, you run like a professional athlete. A Spa Therapist has to move quickly because for us – time is our enemy. 

Guests expect to be picked up and finished – On Time. And believe me, if you start the massage late or finish too early – they’re gonna bitch. And since their complaints go directly to management… Well, it’s not a good thing – trust me.

There is irony in this. The public thinks a Spa is a mellow place to work in. But the reality is – behind the scenes – it’s anything but “Mellow.”

I dodge past a few of the Therapists and Guests. My joints produce these ridiculous cracking and popping noises – making me sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies Cereal.

I stop at the bathroom. Wash my hands again. Then comb my hair. An older Dude stares back at me in the mirror, wearing a stunned expression of disbelief that says “This aging bullshit – is gettin’ real Man.”

After my bathroom pitstop,  my car is just short walk away – where my own private sanctuary awaits me. 

Sitting in my car, with the key in the ignition, my hand on the key, I gaze at the Spa and think. 

Why don’t you just leave, Old Man?

I fantasize about turning the key, puting the car in reverse, driving out of the parking lot and going home. Never to return.

And who knows? Maybe someday, I might do that. 

But Today ain’t that Day.

Taking the key out of the ignition with a sigh, I leave the parking lot and head back in.

By the time I hit the breakroom, I espy a New Manager being introduced to a group of Therapists seated there.

I pour myself a cup of coffee that reeks like yesterday’s sox and tastes like battery acid with cage droppings from the local Petco. 

Fucking Priceless.

I sit down with a grunt.

“You must be Charles?” says the New Manager.

“That’s right, ” I say, taking a sip of Joe.

“I hear you’ve been a Masseuse for twenty-four years.”

“I’m a Massage Therapist – Not a Masseuse, Mam. And you heard correctly.” 

“Oh Ok… Sorry. So…umm…you must really Love what you do,” she opines.

“Well, it’s a living,” I chuckle and go back to drinking my toxic coffee.

There is a deafening silence.

“Aaaah! Cmon’ Charles everybody thinks your Awesome! Get over it Dude!” one of my Coworkers yells.

Everybody laughs.

I raise my coffee in a silent toast.

Giving everyone a wink and a weary smile.

About this Story

It has been my pleasure to have served the public as a Certified Massage Therapist for twenty four years. Hopefully this Older Man can manage to carry on “doing what I do” for many more years to come.

I’d like to dedicate this story to Massage Therapists everywhere – who’s hard work makes this a healthier and saner planet to live in.

You Guys are Awesome.