Thai foot massage: Don't mind the punching

By chance, just a few days after I decided to begin this quest of mine, a friend texted me asking if I was up for a Sunday afternoon Thai foot massage. The only question I had was "What time?" Here's the message I got back: "I'll pick you up at noon. Wear loose clothes."

Then I had another question: "Do you want to get a drink after?" Her reply: "Yes, but our hair will be messed up, so we'll have to get cleaned up first."

That one got me curious (no, not nervous) enough to call for details. I hung up still not entirely sure what I was in for but still assured that it would be $20 well spent. Fair enough. So I changed into my pajamas and headed out to the Midway Foot/Body Massage parlor, er place ... whatever.

As my friend and I continued our conversation walking through the front door, a sort of distressed looking woman hurried over to greet us. In retrospect, I think she was trying to quiet us down so we wouldn't disturb the mood of the communal massage room we were about to enter.

I guess I had pictured a room lined with chairs similar to those you see at nail salons, with the whirlpool in the foot area and the remote-controlled back rollers that sometimes get stuck in a position that feels more like having a potato shoved between your back ribs. Not the case here.

The room definitely had that "massages happen here" vibe to it. Soft, relaxing music. Muted pastel tones and soul-soothing trinkets all around. And the occasional whispering amongst the staff.

But instead of the salon chairs with people sitting upright and wincing from the occasional potato jab, there were foam recliner thingys (for lack of a better term) spaced three or four feet apart throughout the room -- a few occupied by customers, towels draped over their eyes, their butts getting a good punching ... but I'm getting ahead of myself.

I suspect the first Thai foot massage you get will always be the best one, simply because you have no clue what to expect from one moment to the next. Once you’re lying flat on your back with a towel over your face, you have only auditory clues from neighboring massages in progress about what’s ahead.

My hour-long journey began as I expected a foot massage would, with my feet soaking in warm water. What I didn’t expect was the ensuing scalp massage, followed by a firm and systematic rubdown of my arms, hands, fingers (complete with knuckle popping), and calves. Then came the actual foot rubbing, which, ironically, wasn’t particularly noteworthy for me. But, to be fair, I was concentrating intensely on not jerking my feet away in ticklish spasms.

This was around the time I heard my friend’s masseuse start giggling shyly and apologizing profusely. She later confirmed my suspicions of an accidental boob grab (hey, if you’re going to rest your hands on your chest underneath the towel, you have to know the risks).

Then came the slapping sounds. And I couldn’t help but laugh because I was just giddy with anticipation. Shortly thereafter, one leg at a time, my masseuse took me through a series of stretches, not unlike those you might see a trainer administering to an athlete who’s preparing to leap over stuff or put someone in a leggy chokehold.

With my knee bent, she pushed my leg to my opposite side, giving me that deep stretch in the hip flexor area. And then … she punched me in the butt, repeatedly and without hesitation. I was sure I’d be bruised the next day, not because it was unreasonable force but because I bruise easily. But I didn’t mind because once I got over the initial confusion of it all, I actually liked it. In fact, as I was being tenderized, I was wondering who I could get to resume that practice for me at home.

After sufficiently pulverizing the length of my thigh muscle, she gently pulled some of the bend out of my knee—then snapped my leg straight with the quickness and force you would use to hook a nibbling fish. Then again. Gentle bend … snap straight. And again. Truth be told, I still don’t get the point of that maneuver. But it’s all part of the journey.

Upon request, I flipped over onto my stomach for what I could only assume was the finale: a delightful back and shoulder rub. For this, my masseuse hiked up my shirt, just in the back, and unhooked my bra. My friend lost her shirt entirely. Again, all part of the journey.

So ... is Thai foot massage my passion?

All things considered, the experience was, as promised, $20 and one hour well spent. But is it my passion? Probably not. Will I add it to the agenda next time I have family from small-town Ohio in town? Oh, for certain.