Pummelled, Poked and Fixed.

I dislike my massage therapist immensely right now.

Judy has a talent. A talent for finding the knots in your muscles. For finding the adhesions in the fascia. And for working those out of your body. This is good.

She doesn’t subscribe to any of the crazies; chiropractic, magical stones, meridians, etc. This is good.

With the lightest of touches she can reduce me to a squirming mess trying hard not to shout obscenities that her children might hear from downstairs. This is good.

She continually updates her knowledge about muscles and anatomy, and will talk about the things she has learned as she works out your kinks. Helping you to be aware of the stresses you inflict on your body and giving you knowledge to help avoid repeat injuries. This is good.

This is deeper than deep tissue massage. It is tuned to your sport more than any sports massage I ever received. This is good.

If you have never had a proper massage like this. You should. Especially if you are at all athletic. This type of massage isn’t relaxing. It isn’t a pleasure. It will bring you to the edge of pain. A pain that I see as colours and those colours consume me. This is good.

The aftermath is that your legs get their bounce back; your shoulders can move again; your arms, back, thighs, calves, and even your feet will thank you.

But not until the next day. Or even the day after that.

Thank you, Judy.

Forgiveness comes tomorrow on this occasion, I think.

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