Fondling Lemons

Redemption!

My massage practical turns out to be the exact opposite of my physiology and anatomy hell-class. By the end of class I've heard the term "chi" batted around several times, and our instructor has rambled briefly about chakras, so I feel like I've time-warped back to Michfest. That, and we got to fondle lemons. But more about that later.

My instructor is a short, stout fellow with a Russian accent as thick as pizza dough. He is self-assured but not arrogant, he is thoughtful and it is evident he loves what he does. I know this is gonna be a good class when he spends the first 15 or so minutes raging about the medical industry and, basically, how they're whores to the pharmeceutical companies and how things such as massage therapy and herbal remedies shouldn't be the ones considered "alternative medicines" because pumping your body with pills is really the "alternative" and unnatural route to deal with things. A man of my own heart.

We find out that our four hour class is going to be split in two--the first half will be theory and lecture, the second half will be massage practice. Our textbook for the theory half is apparently the bible of massage, John Kellogg's book from the 1800's called "The Art of Massage," which I dig simply because the pictures look more like little disturbing slices of life from a mental institution than people enjoying relaxing massages:

For the massage practice half of the class, we are expected to wear (as he puts it in his broken English) "bathing suits" or "bathing suit tops" (translation to those of us who aren't cracked out enough to come prancing to class in bathing suits: "sports bras") and shorts. We will be pairing up each week and practicing on our partner, so we need to have as much flesh exposed as possible (tee hee). This weirds me out a bit as I'm gonna be flesh-fondling for two-hours once a week, but seeing as that's the point of me being here, I'm sure I'll get used to it. And the bonus is that I'm gonna come home every Wednesday night soothed from being massaged for an hour or so in class. How fricking excellent is that? And by the end of this semester, we are supposed to know enough about massage to be able to provide folks with relaxation massages (not therapeutic, but relaxation, and hell if that ain't the best kind of massage anyways).

I am also pleased because there is a bit more camaraderie among the students in class today--everyone's a lot more chatty and pleasant than in Monday's class of unpleasantness. This is particularly good because these are the people I'm gonna be spending the next two years around (you tend to end up with about 75% of the same people in all your classes since you're all taking certain required classes each quarter). I of course immediately manage to attract the interest of the one stoner in class (a tall and shaggy blond surfer-esque dude) like a moth to a big burning pile of marijuana, and he spends the break grilling me about whether I know of any herbal remedies that will clean the pot out of his system and explaining to me how he's on probation because of possession and a DUI (heh heh--yup yup, I *always* attract the stoners from a mile away, I kid you not). By the end of class, he's begun following me around like a little puppy-dog. I suspect we will become friends by default, simply because the majority of other students in the class are middle-aged with families and not much in common with the likes of me. I also manage to get my ear talked off by the most *talkative* woman I've ever met. She literally talks so much and so indiscriminately that there are moments when she is talking a hundred miles a minute to NO one because everyone is chatting with everyone else. And yet she *still* continues to talk. I fear sitting next to her.

The rest of the class consists of a tour of the facilities which are pretty damn nice. There's typical stuff like a student cafeteria, auditorium, etc. But there are also about 10 massage rooms for our clinicals (and for clients who come into the school for massages) which are hooked up with filtered-in relaxation music, massage tables, dimmable lights, etc. We are also shown a room with our "spa-supplies" for when we learn to give spa massages, which include (yip yip) stone massages!! For those of you who've heard nothing about the school I'm going to (which will remain nameless here), the school is SOLELY dedicated to massotherapy and nothing else. I kinda dig that and that's why I picked it, despite the bit of a drive. And for those of you who are currently unaware of this fact, in a semester or two, you will be able to drive yourself up to my school to get free massages from me (and so that I can build up the hours in Massage Clinic Rotation so I can graduate). So when you're in town, plan on dragging your ass out there so I can relax you for an hour (and of course make fun of your pee-pee and naked boobies--I'm mature but not THAT mature).

After the tour, we return to the large massage practical room, complete with about 12 massage tables. Our instructor shows us how to break-down the tables and adjust them and all that. And then it's time for exercises. And so we reach the lemon-fondling fun.

Our instructor throws lemons at each one of us and tells us to put our names on them. He then tells us to fondle our lemons until we know their nooks and crannies and are able to recognize them as our own. We sit in circles, and he asks us to put all our lemons in the middle of our circle and close our eyes. We are supposed to pass around the lemons and try to identify our lemons through touch. I fail miserably, despite the fact that mine is the mushiest lemon in the bunch and should have been easily recognizable. But, as he explains, the class will help improve our sense of touch.

He then has us line up eight chairs in a row, just like in musical chairs. Half the class sits down and the other half stands behind the seated folks. He tells the seated folks to close their eyes, and then asks us to start massaging the shoulders of those seated. Each time he claps, we move on to the person to the left of us and continue to massage until we've made it back to the beginning. We all switch places and then do it again, this time with the previously-seated folks providing the massages. He explains to us at the end that the purpose was to demonstrate how everyone's touch is different and how everyone's body is different, and that as massage therapists, we are going to have to learn to deal with a variety of folks' body types. We are also going to have to learn not to be offended if someone doesn't want to have us as a massage therapist because everyone's touch is different and everyone's taste in what kind of touch they like is different.

He ends the class by talking briefly about chi and chakras and I am giddy because I love that shit and KNEW that this stuff must be lurking *somewhere* beneath the physiology/anatomy veneer. He closes by telling us to go around and hug each of our classmates, explaining how this will open up our heart chakras to one another, exchanging positive energies and all that, and allowing us to grow comfortable with those we will be working somewhat intimately with. It is a love-fest, a hug-train, and as nerdly and new-agey as it sounds, everyone (even the guys) are all smiles by the end, and the hugs are all warm and cuddly. I am pleased.

Positive chi abounds me, but then I return home to hyperactive cats and, as upon returning from a run out to my car to nab something I'd forgotten in it, I find myself unable to get back into my apartment. Try as I might, the fucking lock REFUSES to open. After 45 minutes of wrestling with it (at this point it's 11:45 and I still have to shower and get my ass up at 6 am), I *finally* manage to get the damn thing to open. Turns out that my heavy backpack (which I'd hung on the inside knob so as not to forget to take it with me today for classes) was somehow keeping the doorknob (and consequently, the lock) from turning correctly. The evening ends a bit grouchily, but at least class ended up being good.

And I can't help but smile as I take a shower, because... well... I have a lemon in my backpack with my name written on it and you don't. =)