On a sports massage

I don’t really have any excuse for neglecting my blog, only that it’s that time of year, as it is for any student in education at the moment (granted it’s been that time of year since about October, whence forth I resigned my Friday nights away from tequila shots at local clubs, and slung back a pair of heels for a pair of slippers all in favour of studious commitment).
The libraries are filled, the online student forums buzzing. I’m still a frequent visitor at both university libraries in Exeter, but have been told to contain my minor fury at never being able to find a tidy little seat to rattle away at Hamlet upon, not actually descending from the uni. The fresh scent of newly cut grass and the fragrance of Spring is mixed with stress. Pre exam stress, to be precise.

I have a tendency to get overly anxious in the coming months pre exams, thus my mother suggested a relaxing spa day to soothe the woes (and the consistent tongue ulcers I’ve had since Christmas, which I’m diagnosing as another stress induced plague). An afternoon of plush dressing robes and massage oils did sound extraordinarily enticing. Unfotunately the waiting list at the local country club was a month long, as I’m envisioning the hordes of stressed students flocking upon the spa baths, with a round of golf to tip off the evening.

Not to be put out, I booked a sports massage – considering myself a powerlifter-in-progress and recognising the fair amount of damage I’ve done to my body in learning the ropes of weightlifting.
As the Sims have taught us all, the true key to a lover’s heart is furiously massaging their back. That being said, I’ve always struggled to find the so called ‘knots’ when kneading someone else’s flesh. My masseur did not however have quite the same issue. I can only attempt to convey a level of white pain of having a knuckle or elbow ground down on a tender spot on your back. The science behind it was explained and was truly intriguing, although I could only vaguely attempt to pass on this knowledge with metaphors of untangling knotted hair or spaghetti. There were several points during the session where I thought I might be brought to dry heaving, with my face planted through the massage hole and thankfully pointed at the ground.

I’m not entirely sure I would label the experience as relaxing. There were certainly no tall glasses of iced water with fresh cucumber slices, deep, chanting music, nor yankee candles.

That being said, my back certainly does feel like ready kneaded dough a day later, which can surely not be a bad thing.

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