I don't often invoke my Southern roots while writing, with twang and vernacular and whatnot, but after my experience at the massage therapist earlier this week, I feel like the best way to convey my feelings is to say Y'ALL. GOANDGETONE.
Now, Iam a fan of massages in general. You know, for regular life. But they are definitely filed under the extravagance category for me, to be sure. However. During pregnancy?Oh my lands. Lawmercy. Shew dog. Worth every single penny and then some.
Stairway to heaven.
My appointment was at a wellness center, which I highly recommend (with all my … expertise … in … nothing). I've had (non-prenatal) massages at spas before, and I've found that Iget the best massages from places that are more medically-inclined, for lack of a better term. Less frou-frou and more technically anatomy-minded, if you get my drift. I mean, don't get me wrong, I am not anti-spa (take note, Luke!), and can certainly appreciate a nice fluffy robe and trickling water sounds like the next gal, but when I'm big with child and all the muscles in my body are plumb tuckered out, my main priority is being massaged by someone who knows exactly what they're doing in a pain-relief kind of way. Which, Imight add, the nice woman with whom Ispent a magical hour with that day, did.
Call for an appointment. (Yes, I'm talking to you.)
Word on the street these days is that cut out tables that have a hole for your belly so that you can lie facedown are not so good for your back muscles, although I've had friends who've experienced this phenomenon, and they tell me they would pay the same amount of money all over again just to get to lay in that position for an hour. I don't doubt it. It sounds heavenly. But again, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, if someone trained in rubbing muscles is going to knead my poor swollen baby-laden body, I will get in whatever position they want. I don't even care if that sounds dirty.
Where the magic happens.
I got an unexpected bonus a few minutes in to my session when Idiscovered my table was heated. That's right. With warm, delicious warmth. It was like someone giving me a chocolate sundae and then offering to spoonfeed it to me. And then wash the dishes. Yes and please and thank you. Iwill take the heated table.
If I had to name one negative of the experience (and I really have to reach for this one) I would admit that I am a wee bit (enormously)ticklish on my feet, and enduring that part of the massage took some steely reserves and also the loss of some dignity. But at that point I was like jelly, so what did I care?I didn't care. Not at all. Rub away. Have your way with me, woman.
Ifeel relaxed just looking at this picture, don't you?
Seriously in all serious seriousness, my soon-to-deliver sisters:make room in your schedule/budget/life for a massage session. It is not an extravagance, it is not frivolous, it is healing and restoring and magically delicious. Ask your mom to buy you one. Ask a friend. Put it on your registry. Sit out in front of your house with a donation jar (cankles visible, for the pity factor)—just DO IT. Your puffy, water-retaining, baby-hefting body will thank you.