Honey, shush. Nuh uhn. You are tight.
No, no, no, no, no — I’m a massage therapist. I am. I took an intensive on my Disney cruise to the Lesser Antilles in May and completed my fellowship — 30 hours, supervised — with the West High School athletic department just a few weeks later because my temporary unemployment and newfound passion for health services collided on a bullet train I didn’t even know I had a ticket for. This is me now.
Hush it, chiquita. You’re fighting me — a licensed massage therapist — and you probably have no idea how much torsion your hips are carrying. But I do, and this is because I have been extensively trained by Mal, a veteran cruise masseur and instructor with fifteen years of practice in the body arts. You know what he always says? He always says: “The body is an iron gate of paper. It must be folded, but never bent.” That’s the thing about Mal. He can, in addition to making a body run like water, be a real and honest thoughtsman.
Oh, peachling. Your lower back is a rubber band ball of hostility. You’re completely italicized. I literally hear the fibers of your latissimus howling and — goodness, it’s worse than I thought. Babe, your body has its eyes closed.
You’re squirming, chiclet. I’m here to heal, and I’m having difficulty gauging whether your blockages are spiritual or psychosexual, but they are manifesting themselves physically and it is with my grip alone that they will unencumber. Until you relax your frame and let me sand your temple, we won’t get you to your heart home. By the way, can we maybe lose the top? It’s not hot and also I can’t get to your trapezius.
You’re testing me, cherry tree. And I don’t know why. Except that maybe you’re scared of living a life of enhanced flexibility and peak athletic performance.
I need you to hear me. Drop that delicious carry-out maki I surprised you with and assume a recumbent position on the ottoman. I didn’t expect our third hang-out to go this way, either, but, sweetheart, this is meant. You are a canyon. I will smooth you.