I long for your touch

The room is dimly lit, soft instrumental jazz playing in the background, as I disrobe and slip between the sheets. A light knock at the door, and as I answer yes, someone slips in. I smile, raise myself up slightly and say, "I'm so glad to see you. I'm really going to need a lot of attention on my neck, shoulder and calves." I settle back down, my face in the donut, as Lisa, smoothing the massage oil over my back, begins my one hour of lovely deep tissue massage.

I didn't always like massage like I do now. I had my first backrub in college. MickeyBlueEyes was just a charming friend of a friend of a friend. Back then I was so ticklish that his first attempt didn't really relax me at all. Even now, a light brush on a special spot on my side is enough to reduce me to shivers. I used to have a variety of friends who would "spell" me when I needed it, a quick neck rub on the way to some fun activity. However, they're now mostly happily married or involved, and it just seems inappropriate to ask. My one fallback is sweet Cherry at work ... everyone rejoices when she's on because she delights in spreading the love.

Lisa is now attacking wih ruthless precision the knots that lay just under my shoulder blades, one on each side. I tend to tense my shoulders when I'm stressed; sometimes I can relieve the tension by cracking my neck, but it's not a foolproof solution. Lisa continues with her strong fingers. The crunching and popping feels a little painful, but after a few minutes, the knot is gone, and my shoulders collapse in relief.

The best massage I ever had was at Wat Po in Bangkok, Thailand. They dressed us in thin, karate-type gi's, and alternated between traditional Thai massage and kneading us with heated herbal packs. Thai massage is fascinating because it's so much more active than Western massage. We didn't lay on our stomachs like we were dead, oh no. The masseuse manuevered us into a variety of positions ... sitting up, lying down with legs in the air, on our sides, even laying across their backs ... almost like assisted yoga. It was magnificent.

And there is definitely something exquisite and requisite about being touched. In the movie Crash, Cheadle's character says something to the effect that Angelenos are so starved for touch that some create destructive scenarios just so that they can connect with other human beings. Certainly in my nursing practice, I find that touch can sometimes soothe where drugs can not. And I know that sometimes I just crave it ... not always in a sexual way, although I sometimes crave that too ... but just to feel the warmth of another person's hand intersecting with mine.

So, when my knots rudely make their presence known, or my craving gets too much, I make an appointment at the facility down the road and let myself be pampered. It's not a spa ... there are no plush terry robes, scented oils, beating with palm fronds or wrapping in fragrant steaming towels. It's just a simple, no-frills business that offers massage at a price that I can pay to get the relief I need.

And so, I long to be touched. By friends and family when they're available, in a neutral environment when they're not, all the while still dreaming of things to come.