The Bluffton Sun - published 3/4/25
The tires crunch over the gravel as the GPS leads me down the narrow alley to my certain doom. I checked the address for the tenth time, to ensure I hadn't entered it incorrectly. The buzzing of an electric sign says it is “ope” but little else gives any indication that I have arrived at the right place. I glance down at the gift certificate to “Chinese Massage Spa” from my dad, and seriously consider performing a 300 point turn to home. I am beginning to wonder if he had taken out a large life insurance policy on me that he wants to cash in.
I think, well this is how I’m going to die, but ignore that voice in the back of my head. I am so exhausted that I might get into the back of a van that has “Massage” written on an old cardboard box in Sharpie. So, against every fiber of my being screaming at me to run away, I open the rusty metal door and step inside. A tiny woman in a pink Mickey Mouse shirt says “Hello, are you Tracy?” I nod my agreement because if I tried to speak, YES AND HOW ARE YOU GOING TO MURDER ME would have leapt from my mouth.
She shuffles me into a room then indicates I should disrobe. I am barely able to take my shoes off before she reenters. Apparently she has a long line of people to chop up and I am slowing her down her body count.
I climb onto the massage table and she places a skimpy towel over 1/10th of my body. It’s probably what she will use to clean up the blood after my dismemberment. She asks me what kind of massage I want. I think the kind where none of my organs are sold on the black market but squeak out "Swedish - gentle and relaxing”. She then turns on some music - probably to drown out my screams.
She is so petite that she needs a stool to reach the table for the session. She weighs about 87 pounds and Mickey Mouse is laughing right at my eye level. She has a quiet demeanor - as Dateline has informed me serial killers sometimes possess - and asks if I am ready. I shakily nod my agreement and she begins the massage. Thoughts of Is she using this much oil to tenderize my skin? slowly dissipate. I feel the tension start to release its talons. Oil, then more oil. It is puddling into places oil has absolutely no business being. I’m either really dehydrated, or she is priming me up to fry with some tater tots and a side of Chianti.
She asks if the pressure is ok, and apparently misinterprets my answer of “Yes” because what came next was straight out of the WWE playbook. She climbs up onto the massage table and starts to perform the Mexican Hat Dance on my spine. Elbows, crowbars, and a jack hammer all begin to make their way into the 45 minutes of torture. I’m pretty sure she pulled out a hidden meat tenderizer and is now using it to massage my inner organs. I manage a pathetic “Ouch” but that appears to have just angered her with my weakness. I’m ready to confess to any crime at this point. The pressure gets so intense that I am pretty sure I heard a lung pop. How is this woman who needs help reaching the table able to inflict this amount of pain? My faint whimpering just blends into the music playing through the speakers of her iPhone.
I’m trying to tell her that it’s too deep of a massage but now I have a collapsed lung and can’t get the words out. There must have been some ladder hidden in the shadows because I swear at one point she leapt off the wall and body slammed me. Or maybe she’s part Black Widow? I have no idea how she didn’t slip right onto the floor with the amount of Wesson that was oozing out of every one of my crevices. My body involuntarily goes into possum position #3 - just pretend you’re dead and maybe she will go away.
The door slams open in announcement of the tag team portion of the WWE event - in which I had a starring role. I think John Cena has tapped in to maim my body with scalding hot rocks; I’m pretty sure he picked them up from the alley where I parked. I must have blacked out because the next thing I know they each have one of my legs and are apparently competing to see who can rip it out of the socket the fastest. Any modesty I had is now on the floor with the prison towel and 35 gallons of oil.
Suddenly a bright light shines in my eyes. Is that you God? I blink to focus. It’s just Mickey and her minion telling me I have used up the dollar amount on the gift certificate. But, for $25 more I can relax in the hot tub. No thanks, I gave up Legionnaire’s disease for Lent, plus I will likely only float on the top with the amount of oil clogging every pore of me and my next three generations.
I call my Dad when I get into the car to alert him that his plan of cashing in on my insurance has been thwarted. Also, I haven’t been this relaxed in years and have already booked my next appointment.
Tagline:
Tracy Winslow is the owner of the PREMIER yarn shop in the area - Low Country Shrimp and Knits. Between running a small business, college professor-ing, writing, and two teenagers - she has little time for self-care. But she does approve of a good massage - just be wary of tiny women who carry oil in a tool belt. Check out all of her fabulous yarn and humor at www.shrimpandknits.com.