Now that the holidays are over (i.e. fun and games), reality is setting in fast on all fronts: creative, financial, maybe even emotional. It's time like these that one must either respond to the challenge or crawl back into bed, bury oneself under the covers and hope life will just leave us alone for awhile longer. While I'm tempted by the latter option, my ambitious (read: afraid of failure) self has been sitting at my desk for the last two days trying to make some sense out of everything.
So I went and got a massage. It was my first one in probably two years, a gift some friends had given me for my birthday last month. I had debated whether or not to use the gift certificate before the holidays and wisely chose to wait until afterwards, when the knots in my back would be at their tightest after two weeks of family-time, coupled with the stress of a new, challenge-filled year.
When I called, the lady asked me what kind of massage I wanted. I had no idea so she gave me some options. Knowing that my back is usually a complete mess, I chose "firm" and was relieved to hear that "Laura" would be my massage therapist the next morning and not "Zack" or "Bud." (No, I don't think it's weird for men to get massages from men, but I'll take the female touch over a man's any day.)
After disrobing (I never know how much to take off so I left my boxers on), and getting under the sheet on the table, Laura entered and got to work on my back. "A lot of knots back there?" I asked. "You could say that," she said. "You work at a computer, don't you?" I grunted an affirmative. She proceeded to work on my back and neck and shoulders. Damn did it feel good. I swear, I should get one of these every week. I'd be a new man. Loose. Not the tense hunchback I usually am. The room was dim and she had a lot of nice female singers on the boombox: Fiona Apple, Norah Jones, etc. There's no way not to sound like a massage rookie here, so I'll just say it: those massage oils are amazing. They heat up, they cool down, they smell good. Combined with Laura's magic fingers, I could feel myself relaxing. Finally.
When I walked out, it occurred to me that I really don't take good enough care of myself. Most of us probably don't, for that matter. Because all it really takes is... money. Good old fashioned greenbacks. Bucks. Clams. Everything always comes back to money. You hear about all those ritzy companies, dot-coms mostly, hiring massage therapists to come to the office for their employees. I bet the people who go nuts, shooting everybody or acting crazy, have never had a massage. All those poor working folks out there, they don't ever get massages either. Maybe if the government had a "Massage Corps," there would be a few less problems in the world. Send them to the postal service, for instance. Or Donald Rumsfeld's office. Or to the Middle East. Maybe a good rubdown now and then is all those people need.
Where am I going with this? I'm not sure. I thought maybe this would connect to "the life of the screenwriter in LA" (what this blog is supposed to be about, I think) but it ain't happening. A guy went and got a massage. That's the story. The moral of the story? Massages are good for you.
You expected something deeper, perhaps. You shouldn't. I live in L.A., after all. That's my excuse and I'm sticking with it.