For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been noticing the smell of gas in my car. I’ve pooh-poohed this smell, glancing around at intersections for offending 18-wheelers. However, today as I drove around town, my dura began to ache, and there seemed to be an oil slick forming on my palate. By the time I arrived at my massage appointment this afternoon, bittersweet fumes had filled up my senses. I walked headily across the parking lot, still hoping that whatever reeked of gasoline was not my car.
“I’m here for my Rejuvenating Massage,” I said at the front desk.
I was quickly led down the hall to a room, where I disrobed and climbed onto the table like an unfortunate pelican. My massage therapist came in, a new girl to me, and immediately started digging her fingers into my back. I wondered if she could smell the gas like I still could. After awhile I couldn’t smell anything anymore because the fumes coming off my hair had stuffed up my nose. I breathed through my mouth and could taste gas. I tried to relax.
I had asked for the Rejuvenating Massage and I’m sure the blood was rushing back to my spine from wherever it had been hiding all day, but my massage therapist was hurting me. She repeatedly jabbed two fingers into the flesh on my back and pushed them over my ribs, bumpity bump bump. I should have told her immediately that this did not feel good, but I didn’t, for the same reasons I stayed married too long. For the same reasons I was driving around in the Exxon Valdez.
Finally, my eyeballs swimming in rainbow swirls, I mustered the courage to tell her the truth.
“I think the pressure might be a little too much,” I tiny-shrieked.
I think I’ll call my mechanic tomorrow.