There's the rub

There's the rub

I’m not big on touching.

I don’t hug arriving family members at airports, I don’t hold babies, and I don’t pet dogs; I keep my hands to myself and prefer if others do too. Given that, I’m not likely to be into massages. The thought of lying on a slab-like table, exposed like a piece of meat while someone tenderizes my body, has never appealed me.

Then came the car accident. A week ago the car I was riding in was rear-ended by a guy going about three times as fast as we were. Since that time I’ve felt such pain that I’ve been experimenting with primal scream therapy, so much pain that I did the unthinkable—I called to schedule a massage.

With only slightly less trepidation and dread than I feel when visiting the doctor (which I do only on suspicion of impending death), I showed up for my appointment, conveniently tacked on to the end of my monthly facial at Apropos.

I lay focusing down at a bowl of dried flowers strategically placed in the line of vision of the massage table’s face-rest. Surely she will suggest a weight-lifting routine to start immediately after my recovery, I grimaced, as Sarah worked on my back. She never did.

At various times during the massage, I felt like a clump of dough in the hands of a master baker, or a wet towel being wrung dry. Throughout most of the 30 minutes I could feel the ill-will and negative energy shooting out of my body like neon-green radiowaves in a classic sci-fi movie.

By the end, I felt a strange sense of peace, like an astronaut returning to Earth for the first time in a fortnight. I felt strong enough to solve the problems of the universe, but relaxed enough that I might want to take a quick nap first. I’m not hooked or anything, but, I must admit, it felt good.

Which brings me to glow, this collection of stories you’re now reading. In the following pages, we explore feeling, looking, and being better.

Massage certainly did it for me. What will do it for you?

—MiChelle Jones

Massage certainly did it for me. What will do it for you?

—MiChelle Jones


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