Imagine relaxing into the complete care of someone else, finding that trust in yourself that babies have for their parents, that innocence where you can take every touch and gesture made towards you with the openness of a child who’s never been hurt by a single person, who’s never learned to cut themselves off from themselves or the world.
It’s not so easy, sometimes, to take the warmth of strangers, to allow others to care for us even when they will do us great amounts of good, when they might heal some of those past pains and difficulties of our pasts, when they might move us into a future of which we always dreamt but never knew how to achieve.
Today was my second visit to a day spa for the second-only mani-pedi I’ve experienced in my life, paid for entirely by a friend who makes it a habit to give generously to friends and family, who asks for nothing in return, who knows that gifts are even transitory and perhaps only moments of fleeting happiness for others – yet gives anyway.
I rested into the cushioned, leather chair, my feet soaking in warm, soapy, swirling water. This time, I knew the routine and relaxed into it, though I watched, fascinated, as the two ladies went through removing nail polish, cleaning and massaging my feet, calves, hands and arms.
There were long moments, last time, when I wondered if I deserved such treatment. Of course, it was being paid for… but that doesn’t necessitate desert. For long spans of time, I could feel my residual tension, built up over long months and years that had become a part of me that I just accepted – like the callouses on my heels and toes that annoyed me, that I promised I’d one day get rid of, yet never quite took the time or knew how to do it properly.
I scolded myself, last time, for accepting such a self-indulgent gift; I’ve never really cared for perfect nails, for painted finger-and-toenails, for silky-smooth skin – especially since, through my diet and natural health care habits, I manage to have clean, smooth and soft skin that is occasionally remarked upon, even if my fingernails are weak.
Last time, the treatment was nearly over, my naturally-pink nail polish glistening prettily on my fingers, my lower legs scrubbed and moisturized and warmly wrapped in steaming towels, my scalp being massaged deeply before I let go of thoughts and accusations to sink into the bliss of letting someone I didn’t know take care of me.
This time, my friend’s damp calves and feet being thoroughly massaged, I remembered how I love to learn. So I let myself learn: I watched as my pink fingernail polish was removed, finding myself at home in the answer to my week-long question of how gel polish is changed; watched and learned how to file, buff, trim my nails and cuticles.
The young-to-old ladies around all took this in stride, all are seasoned veterans of self-care; even pretty little girls scampered around the room, their fingertips dashed with the colored marks of hand care.
I’ve been caught between worlds, between caring for the health and condition of my skin and nails out of a concern for my health and well-being, yet thinking the world of mani-pedis was superficial, self-indulgent, consumerist and unnecessary. Yet, I never knew how….
I turned on the electric- masseuse-chair and felt a shock. Ripples and rolling balls moved up-and-down my back, under and between my thighs, and I forgot to watch my human caregivers. The merciless machine demanded me to give my tension, to give in to its waves of pressure that felt better than the best human massage I’ve received to date – which was months ago, all-too-infrequent and altogether too kind. It was all I could do to refrain from gasping and moaning as the strange machine hit so many nerves, released so much forgotten pain.
In self-conscious awareness of all the people around me, I instead breathed deeply, now increasingly sensitive to my human caregivers’ work. I was broken; I felt myself giving in with every touch, with every gesture to the beauty these women were being paid to create.
Being paid? It almost didn’t matter, didn’t feel like a fair exchange, no matter what price; my self-conscious pride threw itself back at me, retorting that this much care must be costing my friend a fortune.
It’s odd the way our minds hold to old pain, to old tension, even when we know it hurts, that it would be better to release it in love, to those capable of handling it in their strong and natural ways. I watched as my mind let go of pain only to recreate it in another way, as I acknowledged the bad habit and demanded, consciously, that my mind let it go in love for myself.
We strong people of the world, we forget sometimes that we need love too. We forget that others might care, that others must care, that others need to care and give what they may – especially to us, so we may go on, so they may go on in their small or large ways. We forget that we must let go, too, of the tensions that build from hard work or deep love; that we must indulge ourselves in care and love; that doing so will move the world as surely as our works.
It dawned on me that I’ve been taught by men, surrounded by men, loving men in all their strength, endurance and capabilities. That I am caught, too, in some of the prejudices and habits of men: of believing that self-care, especially of the physical sense, is particularly insignificant and superficial and to be ignored unless utterly practical.
Yet I recall tales of the Romans and Greeks, of their spas and daily massages as told of in Quo Vadis, of the great love and self-care that these men allowed themselves amidst and perhaps contributory to the great achievements of their societies.
It’s not just vanity, I realized today. It’s not just superficial to be self-indulgent, to allow someone to care – even if it’s a stranger in a day spa. The treatment is what matters, the allowance to let go and be cared-for, to re-open oneself to oneself and the world, so we can continue in our natural ways.
It’s not just vanity, gentlemen. It’s called: self-love.
Oceans of Mine 