One thing I failed to record when I went on retreat recently is that the retreat house had a poster advertising ‘Christian massage’. I booked one, but I was at a loss to know what was particularly Christian about it – it seemed pretty much the same as any other massage. Maybe the background music was actually instrumental Christian choruses – I am very out of date with what the up to date charismatic is currently singing so I wouldn’t have known.
Some weeks prior to this I had noticed on my Facebook profile an advertisement for ‘Christian holiday cottages’. I was equally perplexed. Can a holiday cottage, or a massage, believe in and follow Jesus? I thought it was only people who could do that.
Yet again I overslept and left too little time to go swimming in between breakfast and lunch. However, I made it to the carers’ relaxation day in time for lunch (which, having had breakfast at 10.00, I didn’t really need) , followed by ‘healing’, from a lady who laid hands on my head for a long time and claimed she was giving me extra energy. I wasn’t entirely convinced, but it was quite pleasant anyway. I then had a face massage which was fine except when she slapped me on the chin rather hard and repeatedly. Apparently it helps with lymph drainage.
Was so relaxed after all this (it’s good when it stops) that I felt like going straight home, but I managed to get to the gym, have my swim and jacuzzi time, and get home minutes before my son. I am Superwoman!
Tomorrow is a regional conference of the National Autistic Society at which I’ve booked for a workshop which I’m sure seemed very relevant at the time, but the subject of which I’ve now entirely forgotten. Have to be at Baker Street at 9.30 which is a time of day I didn’t think existed on Saturdays.
Have just noticed that the word ‘time’ appears at least five times (six!) in this post – is my subconscious telling me something? Must be a side effect of being mistaken for a pensioner the other day.
…is harder than finding one, and that’s hard enough. Apparently I am in denial (like de baby Moses). Personally I think it’s the therapist who’s in denial that any type of therapy but hers actually has any possible benefits.
Add to that the masseuse from hell who promised me a relaxing massage and then subjected me to half an hour of agonising pain, and my weekly day off has not been entirely the restorative experience it was meant to be. Maybe the school quiz which The Grouch and I are attending tonight will redress the balance.