Oh Yeah, Pound It, Baby!

Massage practical classes are a strange environment. Yesterday I had three different people punching my ass. How often do you get to say that about a class you're taking? Often during our practical classes, you are the recipient of various prodding and poking hands as our instructor attempts to show students where a certain area they need to work on is located or when he has to demonstrate a technique to the class. People will be standing around taking turns jamming their fingers into the base of your skull. Or our instructor will walk by and start energetically performing some random technique on your neck. It's a weird dynamic, but after the first few weeks, you don't even bat an eyelash when three people are pounding your ass at one time.

However, the class *does* bring out a couple very distinct insecurities in a person (myself in particular but I'm assuming that these are common insecurities as well):

1. I am a person who is not at all ashamed of her body and (despite having weird weight-fixations every once in a while) is not at all embarassed by having flesh exposed. I've nuded it up at Michfest. Last night I forgot my bathing suit top so I had to prance around in my bra. It don't bother me. I actually *like* my body for the most part. It is a good one, despite its occasional malfunctions.

I am also not very self-conscious (and/or even self-aware) when it comes to cleanliness/professionalism issues. I wear underwear with immense holes in them. My car looks like somebody's apartment exploded all over the interior--currently there are three pairs of shoes in my car along with a ridiculous amount of paperwork and garbage I haven't yet gotten around to disposing of. I don't clean my apartment on a regular basis, just when I start to get grossed out by what all the dust looks like in the daylight. I like to pile things up in little piles. I don't make my bed. Ever. My dishes usually sit in my sink for a few days before I get around to cleaning them. I shave but only occasionally. I don't shave my pits. If I am crashing at someone's place and forget a change of underwear, I just wear the underwear I have on inside-out until I have access to new ones. I do laundry like once every three weeks or so. And I pee with the door open. (Ok, the last one's not really related, but I was on a roll.)

But when you have people that you work with on a regular basis poking and prodding and rubbing and handling your half-clothed body, it is hard *not* to find yourself becoming wildly self-conscious at times, and it's hard not to suddenly realize that perhaps all these things you are so unkempt about are not so much charming as royally and filthily disgusting to folks.

Almost every single class, I get paranoid that I smell like absolute shit and am disgusting the person working on me (this is my biggest area of self-consciousness). I get weirded out that perhaps my flesh in all its nuances (pimples, scars, scabs, oiliness) is repulsing them and they can barely stomach touching my body. I worry that when they're massaging my scalp, dandruff is fluttering off like a blizzard. I get worked up about my sweatiness factor--when I'm nervous both my palms, my pits, and my feet sweat, and they're sometimes stuck working on these areas.

Every Wednesday, I feel like a big gross troll.

The problem is not so much getting massaged by someone--I've been massaged and I didn't feel uncomfortable. The problem is being massaged *by people you're going to be working with and seeing tri-weekly for the next two years*. I could care less about the random massage therapist being grossed out by my hairy pits. But when a fellow student is potentially gonna be repulsed by me and carry that repulsion with them for the next two years, it's hard not to be self-conscious.

2. The other area of insecurity is *also* one of self-consciousness: it's a question of "Am I fucking doing *ANY* of this right or does it feel like some crazy-assed chef is grating your back with a cheese grater, pouring salad dressing on top, and then jamming big wooden spoons into your flesh?" Every Wednesday, I feel like I'm back in high school gym class, battling with my body to try to actually be graceful and coordinated in its movements instead of clunking around and bloodying my own nose during gymnastics (yeah, I did that once). I feel completely and totally awkward about my movement, about the way my body is working on this other person, and about my complete lack of gracefulness. I feel inept. And I feel incompetent.

This is partially due to the fact that, 95% of the time, I have no clue whether or not the techniques I'm using on a person actually feel good or are causing them absolute and horrendous pain. It's our first class and everyone is too meek and mild-mannered to give any negative (or even fricking positive) feedback. I could be running a lawn-mower over the gluteal muscles of my partner, and they wouldn't even emit a squeak of dissension, and goddamn if that doesn't breed paranoia: Am I sucking and *that*'s why they're not telling me what a wonderful job I'm doing? Am I doing this too light or too hard? Does this make them tingle with delight or make them wanna scream? Does it feel like their bone is about to splinter in two when I do that? WHY WON'T THEY JUST TELL ME ALREADY?!?! *sobbing*

The nature of massage practical classes is a difficult one for that reason--a 95% on a test doesn't tell you that when you do digital massage of the spine, you're actually doing it well. It is difficult to be working with something hands-on and not receive feedback, and it is difficult to realize that feedback would only be so useful anyways.

So massage practical classes are a strange beast. I cannot think of any other experience (class or non-class-related) that would compare.

Perhaps the first time you have sex with someone. Yeah, the occasional weird awkward fumblings and giggles are pretty similar.

But then again, with massage, you don't have that glorious pay-off in the end.

Except when you've got three people pounding your ass at one time, of course.

Oh, and when you realize that--fucking bizarre-assly enough--your elbow actually might be an erogenous zone. You heard me.