“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.
