Trial lawyers handle stress in different ways. I know one barrister who starts each trial day by pulling cows' teats and ends them by strangling chickens and pulling more teats. Another liked to commence his marathon trials with separation or divorce; 'decluttering' he called it.
But what if you don't own a hobby farm and aren't inclined to dismantle your domestic life?
Sadly, drinking remains popular and some counsel still smoke. Others exercise, meditate or read. Those up with contemporary thinking on the topic might choose a plump, juicy sultana from among thousands and then consume it carefully and thoughtfully over a week or two.
But what if you don't own a hobby farm and aren't inclined to dismantle your domestic life?
Sadly, drinking remains popular and some counsel still smoke. Others exercise, meditate or read. Those up with contemporary thinking on the topic might choose a plump, juicy sultana from among thousands and then consume it carefully and thoughtfully over a week or two.
I am an eclectic de-stresser (or should that be distressor) and have tried the lot. Some efforts, like swimming for example, have worked; others like juggling bananas have not. Then there is Thai massage.
A good Thai massage is wonderful; a bad one is not. I should know, I've had both. Recently I experienced the later and I blame myself. I should have known that it would end badly but the fault was entirely mine.
Firstly, I chose a masseuse without recommendation. Secondly, I forgot to cancel my first appointment when an inconsiderate jury keep me longer than expected. Thirdly, I made a second appointment without admitting my earlier misdemeanour.
I entered the suburban massage space to be met by a strong, stocky lady with Popeye hands and forearms.
She looked me up and down, checked something on her mobile phone then said 'John. You called Tuesday. You miss one appointment already.'
I babbled something less than an unequivocal apology and prepared myself for the exotic treat. I stripped to my boxers and lay tummy down with my face in the donut-shaped face pillow.
The warm not-too-strong incense and soothing Thai mood music assured me all would be well. The mat on the floor under the massage table said 'relax' and that's what I did - for a second.
The masseuse started by assessing my needs. After a little probing and squeezing she pronounced, 'You tight. Too tight. Back all wrong. No relaxing massage for you. You need deep tissue. Very much deep tissue.'
Soon her strong hands were working into the muscles of my back and shoulders. Then she pressed her elbow, or possibly a small hammer, into my spine and ribs. Next she climbed onto the table, stood on my bum and walked up my back. I couldn't see her but it felt like a pretty good impression of someone walking the board and hanging ten. She selected certain vertebrae for special attention and rocked from toe to heal to put things right. She finished with a serious of bounces, like an Olympic diver preparing to dive but failing to launch. I was unable to breath for a moment.
By the time my wind returned and my head cleared she was onto my arms. Prodding, pulling and twisting. She found a pressure point in my elbow that made my forearm jerk and my fingers curl.
I decided to make some sort of comment; to offer a kind of complimentary olive branch.
'You're very strong,' I said shakily. At first she said nothing. She entwined her arm in mine and moved my chest off the table in a manoeuvre that must have looked very much like a half-nelson.
At this point I groaned and worried - quite a lot.
'You think I break your arm,' she asked.
I worried even more and answered in what I hoped was a steadier voice. 'I hope not.'
She made a snorting noise and proceeded to do a cork screw manoeuvre with my spinal column. I responded the only way I could. I moaned.
Later she stiffened her fingers and prodded my neck and shoulders. She found a few more pressure points. I jerked, stiffened every body fibre and whimpered.
'Are you crying?' she asked.
'Not yet,' I replied, but I was close.
When I eventually came to I was lying on my back and she was working on my face. She pressed her knuckles into my temples using a kind of two handed vice grip. She probed my jaw line, found a pressure point that turned me cross-eyed then dragged her fingers under my ears, across my cheeks, up my nose and eye sockets to my forehead where she flicked the tension from her fingers. I'm pretty sure I was teary by this point, though I did manage to stifle the actual sobs.
The sixty minutes passed excruciatingly slowly. When it finished it was a while before feeling returned to my legs and even longer before I regained the use of them. I dressed and shuffled out to reception.
My masseuse was waiting for me, smiling.
She pointed to my back. 'You will bruise,' she said, 'but not too bad.' This prophecy was only half right, because by next day I looked like I'd been stripped naked and tied to a squash court wall during a tournament match.
She took my money. 'You book tomorrow. You need to come back.'
I mumbled something.
'Every day,' she replied. 'Every day for a fortnight. Then maybe every second one for a month. Then we see. You need very much fixing still.'
I have never been back but sometimes I worry she will find me. After all, she still has my number.
So, can Thai massage kill you? In my experience, it probably can.
She looked me up and down, checked something on her mobile phone then said 'John. You called Tuesday. You miss one appointment already.'
I babbled something less than an unequivocal apology and prepared myself for the exotic treat. I stripped to my boxers and lay tummy down with my face in the donut-shaped face pillow.
The warm not-too-strong incense and soothing Thai mood music assured me all would be well. The mat on the floor under the massage table said 'relax' and that's what I did - for a second.
The masseuse started by assessing my needs. After a little probing and squeezing she pronounced, 'You tight. Too tight. Back all wrong. No relaxing massage for you. You need deep tissue. Very much deep tissue.'
 |
| She found a pressure point ... that made my forearm
jerk and my fingers curl.
|
By the time my wind returned and my head cleared she was onto my arms. Prodding, pulling and twisting. She found a pressure point in my elbow that made my forearm jerk and my fingers curl.
I decided to make some sort of comment; to offer a kind of complimentary olive branch.
'You're very strong,' I said shakily. At first she said nothing. She entwined her arm in mine and moved my chest off the table in a manoeuvre that must have looked very much like a half-nelson.
 |
| 'Are you crying? she asked. |
'You think I break your arm,' she asked.
I worried even more and answered in what I hoped was a steadier voice. 'I hope not.'
She made a snorting noise and proceeded to do a cork screw manoeuvre with my spinal column. I responded the only way I could. I moaned.
Later she stiffened her fingers and prodded my neck and shoulders. She found a few more pressure points. I jerked, stiffened every body fibre and whimpered.
'Are you crying?' she asked.
'Not yet,' I replied, but I was close.
When I eventually came to I was lying on my back and she was working on my face. She pressed her knuckles into my temples using a kind of two handed vice grip. She probed my jaw line, found a pressure point that turned me cross-eyed then dragged her fingers under my ears, across my cheeks, up my nose and eye sockets to my forehead where she flicked the tension from her fingers. I'm pretty sure I was teary by this point, though I did manage to stifle the actual sobs.
The sixty minutes passed excruciatingly slowly. When it finished it was a while before feeling returned to my legs and even longer before I regained the use of them. I dressed and shuffled out to reception.
My masseuse was waiting for me, smiling.
She pointed to my back. 'You will bruise,' she said, 'but not too bad.' This prophecy was only half right, because by next day I looked like I'd been stripped naked and tied to a squash court wall during a tournament match.
She took my money. 'You book tomorrow. You need to come back.'
I mumbled something.
'Every day,' she replied. 'Every day for a fortnight. Then maybe every second one for a month. Then we see. You need very much fixing still.'
I have never been back but sometimes I worry she will find me. After all, she still has my number.
So, can Thai massage kill you? In my experience, it probably can.
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