The Irony of Massage

So if you don't know already, I'm a massage therapist. And if you knew me before I started this endeavor, you probably know how weird it is that I am one. I've always been kind of weirded out by physically affectionate people, I'm definitely not a "hugger" and I generally like to have my 3 feet of space at all times. And all those things still apply to me now. I got into massage on a whim. I just wanted to be trained in something that could make me money. Something where I could work for myself and stop the madness of being a nanny and helping other people run their lives. I wanted to do something that would help me run my own. So as I'm laying in bed one night watching one of my lame shows, (yes I am aware they are lame, I like them anyway, its part of their appeal), one of those cheesy massage therapy school commercials came on and I guess it just caught me in the right state of mind and I was like, ok what the hell, this is gonna be my new thing, massage. Just like that. No prior interest, no deep seeded need to help people relieve stress and bond spiritually with the power of touch, nope, just ok I need a new way to make money, rubbing people is the direction I'm going, let's do it. And for the first time in my life, I followed through with a thought and I enrolled in massage school. Now mind you that was almost 4 years ago. One car accident and a pregnancy later, here I am. It took me a little longer than I planned, but by god, I stuck to it, which more than I can say for anything else in my life. And for some reason, massage and me go together like peas and carrots. I'm good at it. I'm actually good at it. I don't have to fake it, I don't have to exaggerate and talk my way through it, I'm a damn good massage therapist. And when a client's on my table, I'm not weirded out. When I'm massaging them, I'm feeling their muscles and picturing their ligaments and tendons in my head like that weird Robbie something or other video from the 90's, where all his skin starts tearing off and he's like all veins and blood and stuff, yeah that one. I feel a strong bond with human nature, like this is what we're meant to do, we're meant to help each other, to use our bodies and our minds to heal other peoples bodies and minds. And it makes me feel good. But afterwards, if they try to hug me, forget about it. I go back to my weird socially awkward self. Isn't that wild?? I mean giving someone a massage is probably the most intimate thing you can do besides sex. And no, happy endings are not part of my repertoire. Although, judging by the ads on craigslist, maybe they should be, money talks. Just kidding. Seriously though, getting undressed and laying under a thin sheet while another person rubs your body is pretty damn intimate. Which is why I think people feel so comfortable with me afterwards, its like they've known me their whole lives. After I massage somebody, its like they wanna tell me their life story, which is totally cool with me, just don't hug me.

Ok. So here it is. My blog. I've almost been afraid to start one. I've always had a love hate relationship with writing. I love to do it, but it's such a powerful release, it takes a lot out of me. I come to so many startling conclusions about myself by reading my own writing, it makes me nervous to share it with the world. And by the world I mean the 3 people who will end up reading this. When I write, sometimes the words almost fall out of me, I go into this weird trippy trance and things come out that I didn't realize were buried. I don't think of the potentional reader, I just perge unspoken oblivion. Ooooh, I like that. Unspoken Oblivion, that's going to be the name of my band. It was going to be Polly Want A Cracker until someone reminded me of the Nirvana song about rape with the same title. Ruined my childhood dream. Anywaaaaay, so I decided instead of starting to write in my journal again, I'll just write a blog. Let people in on the clusterfuck that is my brain. It's my blog, I'll swear if I want to.

So, let's dive into something personal right from the get-go, tear off the metaphorical band-aid early, maybe it'll make the rest easier. So I named my blog after my star obsession. Sometimes people ask me why I like stars so much and I give them some lame answer about how they represent individuality and mystery and blah blah blah. Not so. Well, they may represent that, but that's not why I love the symbol so much. When I was a little girl, four or five maybe, my mom bought me this stuffed star at a garage sale. It had a large pink star with 3 small pastel shooting stars hanging off of it. It had a hook so you could hang it. I decided I wanted it to hang on my ceiling above my bed. So that night, my dad lifted me up and I hung it on the lamp hook on the ceiling in my room. And he said "Why don't you make a wish." So I did. And I kissed my hand and touched the big star and the three little ones. And then he tucked me in and kissed me goodnight. This became a ritual. Every night he would say "Make a wish." And he would pick me up and I would make a silent wish and kiss my hand and touch the four stars. I got bigger, and the ritual slowly faded. And as my childhood got more intense, I would stare up at that star and still make my wishes. They didn't come true, but that star always represented the possibility that they might. I still see it in my head as I close my eyes at night. I've never said that out loud. So there it is. It's why I drew millions of stars all over my books at school, it's why you'll see stars all over my house and it's why I have one tattooed on my arm. They represent the innocence that once was, the possibility of wishes come true, and goodnight kisses. That is all. I'm spent.