This week, I got my first massage. Oh, how relaxing I hear you say. Well my friends, you could not be any further from the truth.
The calming murmurs of waves softly crashing amongst the shore. The soft, white towels. The gentle aroma of peppermint and lavender essential oils. The aim? To providing serenity. Reality? An ambush of adrenaline.
Although the dainty aroma was meant to relax my mind, coaching me to find my inner zen, it provoked a random burst of physical activity within the not so functional noggin of mine.
With my brain buzzing at a million miles an hour, it's no wonder my muscles were not responding to the soothing movements of my masseuse's hands.
There are two types of people in this world. Those who don't flinch at even the lightest brush of a feather against their foot. And those that will jump so high they could make it to the moon and back.
Myself, I belong to the latter. And the latter is not a place you want to be when in a massage room. So as I instinctually kicked my foot, and may this be a warning to all, into the side of the masseuse's face, it occurred to me that this procedure of laying naked in a room, face engulfed by that uncomfortable face donut thing, not to mention the drip of snot that had been hanging on the end of my nose for the entire duration of the massage, is clearly out of my league. But for best interests of everybody.