Mid Morning Escape

Everyone in my family seemed to be in a horrible mood when they woke up today.  And they had demands.  One needed help with paperwork; another needed to get something scanned and didn’t know how to use the scanner (turns out, neither did I).  Yet another couldn’t work the GPS and wanted a lesson; finally a family member living in another state telephoned me in the middle of all of this and then became angry that my explanation for why I couldn’t chat was expressed in an "unpleasant" tone of voice.

Lately I’ve seen these ads for a place called Massage Envy, with 3 locations in Sarasota. The name turned me off. Who wants to think of something as unattractively human as envy when pursuing something as otherworldly as a good massage?  But when the mounting tension of unrelenting neediness reached a fevered pitch this morning, I found myself mouthing the words Massage Envy silently to myself.  Within minutes, I uncharacteristically slipped out of the house without telling anyone I was leaving.

I wasn't sure where they thought I went, or how they were going to send the scans, program the GPS or fill out the paperwork.  All I knew was that I didn’t care and the only name of a place I could remember, that gave massages, was Massage Envy. (Clearly, I should not work in name branding.)

When I discovered that there are 700 Massage Envy Clinics, as they are called, open 7 days/week from 8AM until 10 AM, nationwide, I realized that I had underestimated the national need for a mini vacay.

I like the assembly line efficiency of these clinics; you feel like you are part of a well oiled, (no pun intended), machine.  Every hour is another shift and it runs like clockwork.  You watch people coming out from their massages with disheveled hair and goofy smiles, while you wait in your group with the nail biters, foot twitchers and those suffering from cell phone withdrawal. Then the clock strikes the hour and in you go, scattering to your different rooms, just hoping to be left alone by everybody you know.

I’ve been to spas where I've waited for a massage swathed in a plush terry cloth bathrobe while sipping herbal tea.  I’ve been to others where I've entered a private room of someone’s home or office and haven't run into anyone except the masseuse and a hand carved sculpture of Buddha from Bali.  I’ve done mani-pedis topped off with a massage where there has been so much red nail polish and chatter around, it felt like I was on the set of "The Real Housewives of New Jersey".

But the business like efficiency of Massage Envy made it seem like a short guilt-free break from responsibilities.  No woo-woo promises, no scented candles, no lovely robes or conversations about my chakras. 

After signing some necessary paperwork, I met my masseuse, who had the efficient look of a surgeon or a top chef: meticulous, strong, imperious. She scared me a bit. Fabulous. I was putty in her knowledgeable hands.

One hour later I returned home.  Apparently the washing machine had broken and all the wet clothing was piled up on top of it.  And while the scanner did work, it seemed that the image had not arrived clearly. Also, one of our dogs now appeared to be limping.  

I smiled inwardly; nobody had even realized I was gone. Now that my formerly tense shoulders were no longer grazing my ear lobes, the horrible mood of my family no longer disturbed me.  Massage Envy, I'll just keep you my little secret. 


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Disclaimer: I have no connection to Massage Envy except desire.http://whatdogsreallythink.blogspot.com/