Marvelous Massage

Some may think it a luxurious indulgence. Some may accuse massage enthusiasts of narcissism. Some have been known to suggest that paying to have a stranger connect with one's bare flesh is creepy. It is none of these things. Massage is exquisite. Massage is luscious. And with the combination of increased age and the way I've been pushing myself physically, massage is absolutely indispensable.

Sunday is the long run day. We usually take a circuitous route through several neighborhoods so that we can put in about 10 miles before we arrive at Starbucks. They know it's Sunday at the local franchise when EG and I rumble in, sweaty and breathless, at about 9 A.M. We order up the usual - in warm weather the iced quad espresso, in cold the venti black-eye. Yes, the marvelous numbing effect of caffiene is appreciated. For 20-30 minutes we chat or visit with the Starbucks regulars, and solve the world's problems. Then it's back out on the road.

Oh the creaky knees! Oh the reluctant heart! They thought we were done, but it's 2.7 miles back home (the short way) and we're pushing our tempo with the biggest part of our run behind us. Sometimes, in our glutton-for-punishment mindset, we'll even take the long way to eke out a 1/2 marathon distance.

Yes, it's an accomplishment to have done this before 11 A.M. on a Sunday. We can move on with our day and forget about the need to exercise, because surely 13 plus miles were sufficient. But the skeletal system doesn't forget.

Blessedly, thankfully, fortuitously, we had a massage planned for last Sunday evening. Our LMT comes to the house to do his magic. 75 minutes of pulling, pushing, and stretching and I leave the table feeling better than good, I'm standing taller. The spring is back in my step. I feel lighter. Deep-tissue, sports massage, whatever combination he uses, it literally takes years off my body. This is not a luxurious, narcissistic indulgence. This is as essential as oxygen.