Further Lessons in Humility: Wear waterproof mascara to Rolfing sessions.
| July 17, 2011 | Filled under Miscellaneous Prose |
There are a lot of things you can spend your money on, but not too many that give you the experience of being whipped by a professional dominatrix for only a fraction of the price. Welcome to Rolfing. It’s what people learn if they got kicked out of S&M school. Rolfing kind of sounds like vomiting, and sometimes it kind of makes you want to, but amazingly it has nothing to do with tossing your cookies or latex wear. Which is probably why they don’t cost as much as your average professional sadist: Lower overhead.
I hadn’t heard of this kind of therapy until last year when Theresa invited me to a running clinic with Owen Marcus. Not surprisingly, I showed up to that clinic with a hangover reminisce of college days. It was the day after my birthday. It started at some ungodly hour (you know, before noon) and we pattered around on the beach front in a little group of flopping white running shoes. I left that day with maybe two memories of things I needed to focus on while running: Lean forward, drop my shoulders. And then I got faster. And better. And fitter.
This summer, while in the US, I decided against my better judgement to go have a Rolfing session with Owen. Nice guy. I have a sort of love/HATE/love relationship with him. You meet him, he’s charismatic and smart and you think, “Hey, I wouldn’t mind letting this guy work on me.” Then he touches your body and you want to serve him a knuckle sandwich at warp seven with brass wrapped around your hands. And then for some sort of reason (a phenomenon akin to Stockholm Syndrome), you are torn between kissing his feet and begging for more.
Rolfing is a physical therapy technique that involves manipulation of soft tissue matter in the body. Note use of the word “manipulation.” Rolfers seem to like to call it “sculpting” like it’s some sort of beautiful blossoming process involving clay, The Righteous Brothers, and a half-clad Patrick Swayze. It is not.
So I find myself in this guy’s office one day and I develop a sort of trust for him just because he has bright paintings hanging on the wall. Don’t be fooled by that farce of comfort because later when you could use it, your eyes are so glossed over from openly weeping that you can’t see them anyway. I walked across the floor a few times and heard those customary “hums” and “haws” that professionals use. Like when mechanics are assessing your car and grunt instead of using words you understand. Are those good hums? Did he just tsk,tsk my wobbly knees? If he tells me I have to order new parts from out of town, I’m going to get nervous.
When you’re forking up enough cash for a car payment (okay, if you bought an old Fiat maybe), you sort of feel like walking across the floor is not getting the most bang for your buck. But let me tell you something, people. You get plenty of bang. More than you might want. I had that sort of giddiness of expectant relaxation when I got to lie on the table. It was a nice, wide table without those head rest things I hate. I was thinking “Right, here we go, onward to the massage!!!”
Then Owen stuck his elbow, God knows how, somewhere between my right buttocks and corresponding kneecap deep enough to massage my left ovary. It was the beginning of my brass knuckles fantasy.
I feel pretty put together as a human being. My body does what it needs to and operates accordingly. I either don’t have enough emotional trauma to be dramatic or I keep it buried too deep to care. And I tend to remain relatively stoic and impenetrable in the face of pain. But being on that table made me want to cry like Johnny Depp’s girlfriend in that movie when she drinks a cup of her tears. It wasn’t necessarily the pain (or the pleasure of its relief), but the blatant, obvious knowledge that as even-keeled as I think I am, deep down in my muscles, I’m carrying a lot of crap. And as much as I might have wanted to accept the bizarre torturous/orgasmic experience in my usual silence, I let out a consistent series of curses and groans and moans and cries that make the coos of wild sex seem subdued and sleepy.
And in comparison to Rolfing, wild sex might actually be subdued and sleepy.
Somehow, in all that processing and massage of my spleen via my calf muscles, things started loosening up. I’m cynical enough to scoff at juju healing arts with an eye roll for the most part. Rolfing is not that. It’s hands on, physical, and the relief and benefits were palpable immediately. Like ow.ow.ow.OW. Ahhh. All better. Like stop. Please stop. For the LOVEOFGODYOUSADISTBASTARD. Oh. Can you do that again?
And after all that intimate muttering, I almost had the urge to say “will you call me tomorrow?” as I slipped into my jeans again.
A few days later I went for a run. My body did some things it didn’t do before. It moved freely and effortlessly. It formed to the landscape and transitioned well. It breathed deeper and fuller. It leaned forward without thinking about it. It felt good. Really good.
And like a man who can’t quit his whore, I keep ringing Owen up to see if he’s got time to squeeze me in again before I leave town. I keep thinking, “This will be the last time,” and then I go back for more.
USUALLY, I am not an “I told you so” kinda girl but… I TOLD YOU SO I TOLD YOU SO I TOLD YOU SO!!!
Wow, that felt good!
You told me so.
I love the crybaby reference.
I’ve been thinking about doing this for years. I am TOTALLY sold! Does he have any good contacts in LA?
Well Ammi,
I hope I didn’t disappoint you today with your session. You still haven’t brought your ‘bite stick’.
Owen
“Disappointment” is never the appropriate description for a process that brings you closer to God (even if only in begging for mercy).
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