The aches and pains of growing older are hard to deny, try as I might to downplay them. The last time I traveled to Singapore, I clearly remember problems with my back.
One Day Prior to Departure
First back massage, ever. In a foreign country. Pummeled by a woman who spoke little English. Not my choice but my host's when back pain bent me into a distorted comma. Again. This time in southern Asia. Thank the gods for muscle relaxants in my make-up bag. Part of my fixed stash. Woozy with altered judgment I agreed to the massage. Face in a black hole. Arms dangling. Paper panties only. A wisp of a woman, actually a well disguised Sumo wrestler, pinned me. Trapped animal snarls escaped my clenched teeth. Blinded by darkness and "seeing" no other way to count down 60 minutes of agony, I gave up at fifty-Mississippi, resigned to my fate. But torture eventually ends. She concluded the session with a question. "Massage painful, no?" A weary smile my only reply. The next day a Kafkaesque flight home: flashes of light caused by a flickering console two seats over in a nighttime cabin; weird laughter punctuating the silence; ghost-like attendants calling out "Water" before slipping from sight. Exiting the plane, I floated almost pain free. All that mashing had actually helped. But will I seek out a masseuse in the future? NOT FOR ALL THE TEA IN CHINA! (Or Singapore, for that matter.)
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
