I just had my first deep tissue massage.

It’s silly that I’ve never had one before. My back is notorious for being as stiff as a board. Like wood, H.E. would say. The best massages I had before today involved a lot of kneading and a lot of heavier-than-me weight on top of me. And still, my muscles would be unyielding.

Since I lost the day job, though, and long since I stopped commuting 150 miles a day, my back has relaxed somewhat, so I’m not nearly as tense as I used to be. Pretty darned relaxed, comparatively, especially when I consider how like kneading rope and bone my muscles once were. Yet I gave the deep tissue massage a try, and … sigh. I’m almost way too relaxed to write about it now.

Almost.

She found knots, little bundles of muscle tissue deep, deep, deep in the muscles. They click as you rub over them–I feel them too when I rub my own back (yes, I can rub my own back). But she put pressure on the knots and held it there, steadily, until the knots flattened out and disappeared, and the pain felt good.

She found them in my legs as well. I was surprised because I never knew my legs were tense. I’m off them often enough that they never really have to worry about a thing, my legs.

But she found those knots and rubbed them away.

Now I completely understand the fantasy of being away on vacation, on a tropical isle, lying face down on a table with a masseuse or masseur at your back and call. But it definitely has to be deep tissue.

Anything less is a joke.

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