Let Me Relax

The sign says “Let’s Relax”. What a great idea.

I had arrived in Chiang Mai earlier in the day, and I felt cheated. I’ve been in Thailand for three days, and not one massage. No time. My back and shoulders are starting a revolt. Now it’s my show. No relatives showing me around. No bizarre tours sucking away time. It’s time to relax.

I walk into the spa, located in the middle of the Night Bazaar. I’m greeted by four women, each with their hair up in a bun. “Swatika!” They greet me, as they bow their heads in unison, hands pressed together. I’m feeling good. I’m ready to cut loose.

I take a seat and flip through the selection of treatments. The first one I see is the Heavenly Package. It’s the cheapest package they have at 600 Baht, and I’m not one for reading fine print, so I immediately point to it. “This one, please!” They nod altogether. “Excellent choice, sir. This way, pleas” I rise from my chair to follow them, but not before catching the details of the Heavenly Package:

Foot Reflexology 45 min

Hand Reflexology 15 min

Back and Shoulder Massage 30 min

I freeze. Not feet. Anything but that.

I’ve had a phobia of bare feet since childhood. It started when I would sit at Dad’s feet on Sunday afternoons, while he watched football. I would complain to Mom that something in the living room smelled really bad. She’d laugh and go back to folding laundry. She didn’t have the heart to tell me that it was Dad. It was always Dad.

Since then, I’ve been known to faint when touched by a foot. Suggest a pedicure and I’ll retch. The thought of a total stranger touching my feet for 45 minutes sends a chill up my spine. This isn’t a good idea. I think I should leave. But the four ladies have surrounded me as I get up. These women are smart.

I’m lead to a chamber of leather chairs as new age piano plays through the loudspeakers. At the base of each chair is a bowl of scalding hot water covered with flower petals. I plunge my feet in. The initial burning sensation gives way to, dare I say it, relief. I wiggle my toes in the hot water. An unassuming Thai lady takes my left foot in her hands. She washes the dirt away. I’m confused. This is nice. This is soothing. But she’s touching my feet! Who knows what odors are emanating from down there? There could be insect colonies buried between my toes.

Yet Agnes is gentle. That’s not her real name, but if I’m imagining anybody touching my feet, it would be an Agnes. She increases the pressure, loosening the taut fibers in my sole. She digs into every crevice. I think about the ordeal Agnes must go through every day, as sweaty tourists come in, feet festering in unwashed socks. “Are you OK?” She asks, as my whole body shakes involuntarily. “Yes. I’m sorry. Please keep going…”

Agnes moves on to the right foot with the same loving care. She alternates between caressing and manhandling. She takes both feet in her hands and bends them, loosening the joints, relieving tension. She’s about to move to my arms, back and shoulders, when it occurs to me that it’s been 45 minutes, and I am not relaxed. My feet feel heavenly, but I’m still tense. Why is this? Did Agnes not do a good enough job? Do I need more time on my feet? Or have I identified with my foot phobia so closely, that I just can’t let go?

My massage ends, leaving my body less rigid, but not at rest. I’m served a final cup of tea with cookies. Agnes and the other ladies watch me as I mash the cookies into my mouth, spilling crumbs. I can’t even relax when I’m eating.

I leave the spa, feeling that Thailand and all her Agneses are not finished with me. They know my fears. They see my hesitation. They know I need help. They know I’ll come back. And they won’t rest until I’m cured. Until I’m relaxed.

If only my feet would let them.