The Secret Lives of Massage Therapists

Nine hundred and ten miles of driving later, I am feeling pretty good. Apt 2 to parent's house, parent's house to Apt 1, Apt 1 to parent's house, and parent's house back to Apt 2.

For my birthday earlier this month, my boyfriend's mother gave me a massage appointment (no, no, not with her... that's gross, Internet). So I scheduled the massage for this past Friday. Massage is amazing. I recommend it to anyone, stressed and tense or not. There's something very spiritual about massage; it releases me.

Perhaps I should also say that I am fascinated by my massage therapist. She's tall, skinny, probably in her early 40's (I'm horrible at guessing age, though), has super long hair, is married with three kids, gives off that earthy/hippie vibe, and is always wearing an incredibly reassuring and genuine smile. In my wild imagination she and I are great friends, and we talk about growing vegetables in the backyard and home remedies for aches, pains, and just whenever. I don't know if she has an interest in any of these things, but my wild imagination does not take her feelings into account.

I don't know why it never occurred to me before to do this (as it is a favorite past-time), but today I googled her. Today I found out that my massage therapist is in a "vintage country/honky tonk" band.

I have mixed feelings about this, mainly because it doesn't fit into my scenario of us being friends with herb and vegetable gardens. After some further googling, she and her husband are also listed on a gardening website as a "new nursery," thus, perhaps my vision may still stand after all.

Her husband is also in a 20-year old band, described on one website as "surfy-swampy-poppy." I will now always have the image of my massage therapist in a cowboy hat and tank top holding a guitar. How dare she have a life! A word to the imaginative, never google your massage therapist.