“Universal energy,” she explains. “I take the bad energy out and replace it with good energy.” Corrine is trained in Reiki. She's tall, lean, early thirties, has tattooed arms and five ear-piercings on each ear. She’s attractive, open, and is stoked about her job. Power conduit. Yeah. I can see that. She promises I’ll feel energized when it’s over; the feeling might last three days. I beat back the scientist in my head who's insisting that all I need is good rub-down not some bogus, touchy-feely, energy-altering, funkified version of a massage that supposedly lasts for three days. Still, I’m open-minded. I should at least give it a shot before I form any damning opinions. I smile and shrug—“Sure, I’m game.”
I’m robed and ready. Corrine holds the sheet up and has me lie on my back. Weird. In my experience, massages always start lying stomach down. I recline as directed. She lays out my limbs in a way I suppose makes the energy flow better or some such thing, and begins passively. Her hands hover over my feet, then hands, then, face—never making contact. Her warmth is palpable, especially to my perpetually cold feet. She’s a human radiator. I think, “Never mind the hot hands! I’m paying seventy-five dollars for an hour of massage and she’s playing flying saucer. This better get a lot better in the next fifty minutes.”
Finally, contact—my left hand, then arm. She rubs, rotates, and swings the limb. Is she trying to see how loose I am? She moves to my right, performing the same ritual. She asks if I’m left-handed. I’m surprised. I am left-handed, but not exclusively. For a lefty, I do plenty with my right hand. I’ve always imagined I’m somewhat evenly arranged. Not so. Apparently I’m lopsided—just like everyone else.
My arms, now liberally loosened, she advances to my head. A head rub, now? This always comes last. I’m stuck in Swedish massage mode. I’m into the scalp stroking, but it’s the foot massage that really gets me. When my feet get fondled I’ll be better able to gauge this rub-down.
Corrine has read my mind. Feet follow and she means business. She’s not only doing my toes, each one separately, she’s rubbing between my toes, deeply and thoroughly going over ever millimeter of flesh between my digits. It’s personal, intimate. No one touches between my toes except me, and usually only for cleaning. Not even my husband, who has been known to suck on my toes, treats them thusly. The pedi-procedure continues, but the details are fuzzy. Post-massage, Corrine tells me she worked on my internal organs through my feet. I’ll have to confer with my liver, later. This massage is on the upswing.
Next—legs. Uncovering the left she finds an extensive, longitudinal scar over my knee. She lightly runs her finger over it. I’ve never been touched this way. The cicatrix always gets noticed because it’s so obvious. I usually joke that it’s an old football injury. Corrine’s touch is confidential; it tells me “I know what you’ve been through.” She traces its curved path from my lower thigh to my upper calf and I wonder if she can sense that I’ve lost feeling along the hash-marked contour. She says nothing. I’ve slipped something by her.
She bares my right leg, finds two more scars above and one below my kneecap. Again, her finger acknowledges their presence. Her touch is … intimate, penetrating. Having her attend to these ancient wounds is sensual, extraordinary. I’m jolted by a sense of union. This is the first time I’ve had a massage where I’m getting more contact than expected. This isn’t just a massage. It’s more like a private exploration; I’m feeling a connection I’ve never felt during a massage. I should say something. But what?
She has me roll onto my stomach and works on my calves. She does a rolling motion with her thumbs and heels of her hands. The pressure is good but wavers between tickling and pain. I finally wince at the pressure. She lightens up, and asks me if I wear high heels. Nailed! I do wear heels, sometimes high, sometimes not, but usually I’m somewhat elevated. I think she may pronounce judgment on my vanity. Just shy of 5’8”, why do I need to make myself even taller? I’m ready to defend—pants are made to accommodate heels—but she doesn’t comment. Now we both know; it’s doing something to my muscles, imparting a telltale, high-heel signature. I wonder what this means but I don’t ask. I don’t really want to know.
