I love you. I’m here to help as best I can. I accept your humanity with all it’s hilarious and terrible foibles. I’d appreciate it if you would try to accept mine, as well.
I’m not a medical doctor. I can not diagnose your illnesses and/or injuries. With your doctor’s input, I can help alleviate some of your pain. Please, don’t expect a miracle in our first session. Sometimes, it happens but it’s rare. Healing is a process. Perhaps, if you had been taught to be aware of your body more. You might have caught the problem before it reached crisis level. Through personal experience. I have learned to take illness and injury as harsh and humbling teachers. I hope you’re above the curve.
When you’re on my table, please understand. It’s okay to receive. However long you’re on my table is the amount of time the world revolves around you. Enjoy it.
Please, don’t apologize for what you perceive as an imperfect body or ask if I think you have a “nice” body. All bodies are awesome in my world. I don’t care that you have a little paunch, some cellulite, gnarly feet or, a perfect six pack and an ass of steel.. Those are minor issues and I have clients with chronic, debilitating issues who would eagerly slap the shit out of you if they heard your sad complaints and vain question. Your body is an amazing, thing. Take a basic anatomy class. Learn how it works.
I really appreciate it when you shower before your massage. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to stifle my gag reflex when I go to do an arm stretch and I’m punched in the face with some weapons grade B.O. Holy shit, Starshine! Can’t you smell yourself? Maybe a little less patchouli and more soap and water. Thank you.
I’m a massage therapist. Not a psychotherapist. I don’t mind listening to you vent and release some frustrations, but don’t expect me to give you sound advice. If you don’t have the money for a shrink. Go on the internet like everyone else. I have my own loose screws to deal with.
Please, don’t get offended when I point out an unusual spot on your body. Part of my job is to notice these things and let you know so you can have a doctor look at it. This is Arizona. Skin cancer is rampant here and I’m looking after you.
For the love of all that is holy. Don’t binge eat cabbage and bean burritos with a side of broccoli slaw and beer, before getting a massage. I know flatulence happens to us all and I’ve let loose an air biscuit or two while on the table. You’re relaxed and things are released. Wait till after that master cleanse, please.
I don’t care that you forgot to shave this morning… UNLESS, you’re a man with coarse hair. I worked on a cyclist who’s thighs were like petting a cactus. A man who’s wife was a bit lax on shaving his back.. I thought my hands were going to bleed. I’d have preferred a hairy back to that wicked stubble.
Please, let me know if you’re going to cough, or sneeze so I can get the fuck out of the way. I feel like ending the massage when someone blows their germ infested fluids at me. These are the same twats who go to work contagious as fuck and make everyone else sick. Stop it!
Yes, please. I want to see the pictures you took of your vacation, new baby, older kids, dogs, etc. I love sharing in people’s joy. Tell me about your plans to start a crazy cat lady commune or your lessons in dancing with flaming hula hoops. I’m all about the strange.
Don’t be afraid to cry on my table. I don’t judge and will probably cry along with you. Such is the life of an empath. Tears are cleansing. I have tissues handy.
Don’t refer to me as a masseuse. It’s an old term with some dirty baggage. Someone told me there’s massage porn out there. Great, like we needed more people to think they’re going to get something extra with the massage. I guess the plumber and pizza boy shtick got old.
In closing, dear client I want you to know this. I love my work. I want you to love my work and receive every benefit possible. Don’t be a passive aggressive, twat waffle and show up stinky, stubbly, overly gaseous or bat shit crazy. I’m only human and have my limits.