Before Friday night, I had never had a massage in my entire life. I know that lots of people have gone lots longer than 25 years without having a professional massage, but for me, it felt like it was a long time coming.
That's because if things went the way they were "supposed" to, I would have had three by now. The first would have been back in Provo, Utah, when my work gave me a gift certificate for a free one-hour massage. Somehow, I ended up giving it to Jeremy. I felt like he would enjoy it more, and he probably did.
The next missed massage opportunity is still a sore spot (ha ha). The place where I gave birth to Miriam was in the habit of giving every post-partum mom a full-body massage the day after going through labor. But Miriam was born on a Sunday, the next day being Labor Day, and thus the massage people had a holiday from work. Sigh. In retrospect, I think my entire body was probably in way too much pain after (horror story alert to any women who have yet to give birth) a THIRTY-SIX HOUR LABOR to handle a massage (even my teeth hurt), but now I'll never know.
So the massage on Friday night was long sought-after. The impetus was that Jeremy's parents were in town and we gave up our room to them. And then it's possible that they snored quite loudly and kept us up for part of the night (or most of the night, if you ask Jeremy), but I wouldn't dare write that on this blog. Regardless, Jeremy's mom felt guilty the next day and gave us a few dollars to get a massage at the mall.
Yes, the mall. There are these Chinese guys (they actually are Chinese men - I am not using the term loosely) who have a roped-off area near the children's play place (strategic positioning, if you ask me) where they give short massages. And they are very, very good at what they do. Their skills were apparent even to me, though I'd never had a massage before. That night, I slept through the entire night without getting up, which is the first time I've done that since being pregnant with Miriam (who herself only started sleeping through the night last week).
I'll leave you with two other instances in which I deserved a massage, based retroactively on this precedent:
1. When we shared a Russian train compartment with two friends, one of whom snored all the way to Siberia.
2. When we slept on the couch in the living room of my Slovakian cousins, in Slovakia. I say "we," because it was Jeremy and me on one non-fold-out couch that was slightly tilted toward the floor, so I kept almost falling off. During the night, the middle couch cushion fell out, and we couldn't figure out why it was so terribly uncomfortable. Meanwhile, my parents, sleeping in the same room on a couch that did fold out, took turns snoring through the entire night. At dawn, when the roosters started cocka-doodle-doo-ing and the cows started mooing, I looked over and saw Jeremy sitting on the edge of the couch, his head in his hands, in a posture of complete and utter defeat. If any night's sleep ever needed to be remedied by a massage, it was that one.