Birthday Binge

by Christine Gregory

When you are your own partner, you get to plan your birthday adventure however you want.

I made a stimulating itinerary for my 40th birthday, treating myself to special things I rarely got to do: a massage, some hot mineral pool soaking, and a hair braiding appointment. Doesn’t that sound lovely? Little did I know that I would soon be subjected to a hefty dose of pain instead.

My first appointment was with a massage therapist who was highly recommended in on-line reviews. She was situated inside a tiny storefront in a strip shopping center in Desert Hot Springs. This small town is located in the Coachella Valley area of California, and about a one-hour drive from my home in the high desert, near Joshua Tree National Park. As I rang the buzzer for admittance, her last client was exiting with a contented expression on her face.“This therapist must be good,” I thought.

After introductions, she gave me a chart on which to indicate the anatomical regions that were feeling discomfort. I circled the neck, shoulders, lower back and upper legs. There was no discussion regarding types of massage so I made the mistake of assuming that this would be the spa-style, peaceful type of massage. When we entered the massage room, I was all poised to enter a state of relaxation. When she started, however, I quickly discerned that this was a traditional Thai massage, and no part of it would be relaxing.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with this technique, suffice it to say that a Thai massage is definitely not your typical “relax on this table while I gently rub your muscles with scented oils” type of treatment. For starters, instead of a nicely-cushioned table, you lay on a thin mat on the hard floor. There is a physical intensity to a Thai massage that involves the therapist manipulating your body in a myriad of ways, using compression and stretching to increase the range of motion in your joints and muscles and improve flexibility.

Thus began the longest hour of my life. The first disenchantment of the day was that I had to do half of the work.

She would twist me in some awkward position and shout instructions, “Push!” “Push against me.” Then, “Right side.” “Now left side.” “Up.” “Down.” On and on, it continued. At one point, she was hanging from the rafters and jabbing my calves with her feet so hard that my thoughts turned to my three cats, thinking that it was a good thing I left extra food for them in the event that I died right there. I was surprised that I didn’t have to sign some type of waiver liability form. At times, she was having me push against her so hard, and the pain was so deep, I thought I might give birth to something. I reminded myself that I was paying to be tortured, so I needed to just bear it and get my money’s worth. Oh, the irony, that to pay for this body work, I have to earn money at my job that involves physical labor which strains my body and makes me need the massage in the first place. I pictured a snake eating its tail, symbolizing that Greek concept of the cycle of birth and death.

Finally, towards the end, the therapist lightened up on me a bit and brought out some kind of ultrasonic device that she used to roll CBD balm on my skin. She revealed to me that one of my legs was slightly shorter than the other. That was news to me. No wonder I’ve experienced instability all my life, I joked to myself.

Next, she talked to me about nutrition, and explained in her thick, Thai accent that it is healthier to get your vitamins from your food and not from manufactured pills. A woman after my own heart, I thought.

I was feeling a bit more relaxed at this point because she had stopped twisting, kneeing, karate-chopping and wringing me out. It was the only massage I have ever had where I looked forward to it being over, despite whatever issues were undoubtedly being worked out. I told her she was gifted and tipped her generously, as I knew she had trained a long time for these skills. I sense that people like her do not get into this profession for the money as much as they feel a calling to help people. I told her I would be back, which I meant, although next time I think I will make sure that I ask for a more gentle Swedish style massage. I left and silently congratulated myself on not passing out on the mat.

I had two hours of leisure before the hairbraiding appointment, so I purchased a day pass at one of the many hot springs resorts scattered throughout the dusty tourist town. It was described on the website as Mid-Century, which is a polite way of saying run-down and outdated. To me, this has a certain charm and keeps the cost reasonable. I started out with some gentle stretches and easy water ballet moves as I tried to shake off the lingering terror of the Thai massage. I languorously soaked in the hot mineral waters for which the region had earned its name. I admired the palm trees above me swaying in the gentle breeze of this healing oasis. I began to feel like I was living it up at the Hotel California, “cool wind in my hair, warm smell of colitas rising up through the air.” Such a calming respite… before my next torture session.

I have these wayward strands of hair that are undisciplined and never seem to grow long enough to stay anchored in a ponytail. I get tired of constantly tucking them behind my ears, only to have them fall forward again. I got the idea that some simple rows of tight braids, only on the sides of my head, might give me some lasting control of the loose wisps. I had never had African-style braiding done before on my curly Irish locks, so I had no idea what to expect. But you can tell by looking at cornrows tightly woven against the scalp that there must be some pain involved.

Queen Cee, the owner of the salon, smiled and assured me that she was the best in the business. I couldn’t believe how quickly her fingers worked through my hair and formed the rows against my head. But oh, the hurt! During the previous Thai ordeal, I seemed to be at risk of passing out, but now, I was actually concerned that I hadn’t written a will. Something about the angle at which I had to hold my head while she seemed to be pulling my hair out of its follicles made me feel like all the blood was leaving my body. I tried to remain focused on a decorative plaque hanging on the wall that read: “Be still and know that I am God.” All I could think was “Dear God, please let this be over soon. I can’t be still much longer.”

Queen Cee was a seasoned braider and thankfully was soon finished. I had just about reached my pain threshold for the day. Or so I thought, until she told me what I owed her. At least I liked the look of the braids, though I will be glad when my hair grows just a wee bit.

So much for my idea of a relaxing and therapeutic celebration of my birthday. What a day! I knew I’d sleep soundly that night, but I’m glad I fell asleep quickly, because whenever I yawned, it hurt my head.