When Lindsay asked me what I wanted for my birthday I said, “Honestly, I would love to be alone for multiple hours.” When I got that envelope as a gift, I knew my wish had come true. Reflexology is the ancient art of foot and hand massage. There’s a more detailed definition, but like any other body therapy that involves Chinese Dulcimer music, it has at least 10 sentences and multiple references to “healing zones.” I’m not really the kind of dude who responds to a lot of talk about ZONES.
I showed up to Shakti 15 minutes early because I knew they were gonna want me to drink tea before my “session.” As I sat in the world’s most uncomfortable wooden chair, I started flipping through a Yoga magazine. I noticed a few things. First, the 5 ads for probiotics lead me to believe that people who do Yoga are obsessed with their poop schedules. Second, I confirmed a long-lived suspicion that I want to live the Yoga lifestyle and buy all the clothes without actually doing any Yoga. It’s the same way I feel about mountaineering. I really want an awesome tent and a killer Patagonia jacket with carabiners hanging on it, but I don’t really want anything to do with camping, hills or being cold. I’m lying a little bit. I’ve done Yoga in the past, and I’ll dabble in it again, but I don’t think I could ever do it enough to justify carrying around my own metal water container, or wearing flip flops with individual slots for each toe.
My reflexologist had me fill out a sheet showing every place I hurt, and any mental conditions I have. I circled depression, attention span and anger. She told me those issues all stemmed from my kidneys. I KNEW IT! We went into the massage room where she asked me if I knew what reflexology was. I told her “It’s something about there being pressure points in the feet that correspond to different parts and organs of the body.” I nailed it. She showed me a chart and started talking about meridians and other terms that made me want to look blankly at my phone. Once the witchcraft lesson was over, she asked me to lie on the table face up. Turns out the table was too short, so she had to go get an extention. The good part about that was I know how obese people feel when the flight attendant has to get them a special seatbelt. I learned empathy today.
As she started on my feet I asked her “While you’re doing your thing down there could you just let me know what I’m supposed to be feeling? Like, if I’m supposed to be feeling something in my spleen.” She reponded, “Let’s do that in our post therapy conversation, I’m afraid it might interfere with me listening to your feet.” Im sorry, what? You’re listening to my feet? What are they saying? I hope they’re telling you that they don’t talk, because I think you need to hear that right now. She listened to my feet for an hour and a half as I entered a semi conscious state, found God, and promptly lost him again.
She lowered some awesome smelling stuff above my nose, gently touched my face and then mysteriously walked out. She didn’t say anything, just exited like an over confident comic who instead of saying “Thank-you, goodnight,” simply slams down the mic and yells “I killed that shit.” I laid there not knowing what to do. Was the massage over? Should I get up and put my shoes on?
Just as I started to get off the table she walked back in. “I warmed up your tea for you.” THANK-YOU new age lady, you totally rule.
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