Metalundies' blog

It’s always puzzled me why people assume all mummies want to go to day spas? I mean… I get poked, prodded, touched, pulled and rubbed all day every day. I get mysterious sticky and gooey substances rubbed on my skin, clothes and body regularly… so why I would take my precious time off to go pay other people to do these exact same things I am desperate to escape from is beyond me…

I know some people love it, but for me, it’s an exercise in ridiculousness I could easily have my children inflict on me, for free, in the non-judgy comfort of my own home…

Having said that… the greater significance is not lost on me when the man folk offer such a rare “treat” all shiny eyed and full of such loving intention… that no matter your feelings… you go. You say oh my god, thank you and you race out of there. At break neck speed. before any minds can be changed…

Thus it was my dear fellow mummy girlfriend and I sauntered up, stained in cheeseburger sauce, for our day spa experience…

Now, I must confess…. despite the absolute love and affection with which this much coveted mummies afternoon out was planned, on arrival to learn we were to have a three hour incarceration of face prodding and being smeared in unknown stickiness and even bound, like an egyptian mummy, in a cocoon… we may have pulled some mumma bear rank and made changes to compromise on a remedial massage instead…

and so it was as I teetered out the back, in my little undersized Asian slippers, hoping my eyes would adjust quick enough to the low level “ cave lighting” that I didn’t crash into something, following apprehensively the little Thai massage warrior whom spoke no English  that I prepared myself mentally, physically and emotionally for a mummy “treat”…

“Take clothes off” I was demanded… ( who needs small talk anyways)

“Lie on bed. Head in hole”…

And thus, naked Barr my “mumdies” ( mum undies for those in the know… I’ll discuss them and all their functional sexiness some other time) I submitted myself to the fates of the massage ninja master.

And it occurred to me as I lay there, regretting not shaving my legs this winter, that this precious little lady has me rendered entirely powerless and at her utter disposal…. please don’t let her be as reckless and feral as my usual captors, my loving children…

Slop. The first squirt of oil hits my body like what I imagine hot candle wax must feel like in those seedy porn-esque love scenes and I brace for impact.

Her hands are firm but soft and she begins by grabbing handfuls of my fat and jiggling them about. I am sure this is for her own amusement and that she has mastered the art of silent laughter as she watches the jelly flobble of the white lady be wiggled and jiggled at her sadistic pleasure…

Then it begins. The poking, probing, throbbing, jarring. The finding of the stress knots and niggling them until my eyes are wet with tears… and just when I think I might actually cry out in pain she changes tact and starts thumping me with the energy of an aggressive 6 year old boy. She then body slams her elbow into the top of my spine, and straddling me, thrusts her full body weight down as she drags that elbow right down my back, resting finally in the most painful spot she can find… and repeat.

I realise as I lie there. Rendered speechless, that if I were ever to find myself in a street fight, facing off some muggers, I would be doomed as I can not even stand the gentle touches of this teeny tiny 4ft nothing harmless masseuse…

This hammering continues for an unknown period of time until she stops body slamming and punching me and instead deftly lifts my arm out and twists it like a pretzel across and up my back. I am not sure if my arm has ever reached this spot on my back ever before. Perhaps my bones are so broken by her pounding I can now get a gig as a double jointed contortionist… but I confess… being a pretzel felt good…

So just as I sighed in the relief that my mugging had stopped and submitted to the tingling thrill of pretzeling I hear the pitter patter of little slippered feet and soft Thai whispering in the room.

My thigh is gently patted and out she floats… still naked and defenceless I am told I am being handed over to the veteran ninja warrior… and with another, now familiar slurp of massage oil, distinctly different, dry weathered hands take over the kneading of my back dough and my other side… and then it happens… or, doesn’t happen… NO PRETZEL!!! I am now uneven… completely and utterly lopsided.

Less jiggling, more punching and a lot of elbow stabbing later, my bruised defenceless corpse is unceremoniously rolled over…

and just when I think I couldn’t get any more beaten… it happens… rolled over into what can only be described as the recovery position and she punches me in the arse. At first I thought I imagined it. But now, kapow. There it is again. And before I know it, my arse is being beaten like a punching bag in the local gymnasium… why is she punching my bum???

And thus it is, 24 hours later, as I sit on the softest cushion I can find that I am still unconvinced why the world thinks mummies all need and want this kind of torture in their down time… but all the same, bruised bum and all, I’m grateful that I got it…

Yours in agony,

L