Reba and Me

 

(A)nd as many as He touched were made perfectly whole.

                                                  -- Matthew 14:36b

 

My friend Jeannie and I were on our cell phones. She was off to a grocery store to get her granddaughter's favorite premade hamburger patties. I was going to the post office.

 

It's a thrill-a-minute celebrity lifestyle around here.

 

I whined about my dry eyes. Every morning, they hurt a lot. I stagger out of bed and grope stiff-legged to the bathroom like Frankenstein. I feel for the eyedrops, which I leave on the counter in the exact same place every day, like a blind person, so I can find them immediately.

 

I do a desperate backbend, eyes wide open, mouth gaping like a dead fish. I squeeze a few soothing, life-saving drops in, blinking and grunting in relief.

 

TOLD you it's a movie star lifestyle.

 

Well, Jeannie had just gotten back from an eye appointment. She was all excited about the new eye massage techniques the doctor had taught her.

 

"You get in the shower and hold a nice, warm washcloth over them, and hold it there for a while and just let the warm water wash over them. It feels awesome! Then, slowly, with gentle pressure, rub from the inside out, a gentle caress. . . ."

 

"SHHHH!" I interrupted. "What if Homeland Security or somebody is listening in?!? They might not have heard you say this is about our EYES! They'll think we're in some kind of a SEX RING!!!"

 

But next morning, I tried it. And she was right. It felt great.

 

Ah, massage. There's just something about touch that beats everything else. It's always been that way. In fact, one of the greatest signs of Jesus' divinity and yet humanity is how He healed people with just a touch. His disciples could do it, too. Today, we hug and pat and high-five, and those actions have healing power, too.

 

But when we get really serious, we go have a massage.

 

It's nice to be kneaded!

 

However . . . for stressed-out stiffs like me, it can be highly embarrassing.

 

My first one was during a trip to Scottsdale, Ariz., that I took with another harried mother of young children. We left our husbands in charge of the thundering herds for some desperately-needed girls-only R&R.

 

We called it our "Take This Job and Shove It Victory Tour."

 

For the first two nights, we stayed in a cheapo hotel.

 

But for the grand finale, we checked in to a really ritzy resort. We made the most of it, swimming in its series of fabulous pools, walking its manicured grounds, dining alfresco . . . and capping it off with massages.

 

I didn't want to go. She made me. She said I would feel like a "noodle," the perfect ending for a relaxing, refreshing trip.

 

They said to disrobe to the point where I felt comfortable. "OK, then, I'm ready," I said instantly.

 

(They call customers like me "noncompliant.")

 

They told me to put my face in this padded toilet seat.

 

A TOILET SEAT?!?!? I paid all this money to put my face in a TOILET SEAT?

 

It was to relieve pressure on my neck as I lay on my tummy. It was supposed to help me relax. But it's hard to keep your face relaxed - as in, not howling with self-conscious laughter -- when it's surrounded by a toilet seat.

 

So I was laughing at my ridiculous posture, but the masseuse must've thought my shoulders were shaking because I was nervous. She asked if I wanted a massage that was "gentle" or "intense."

 

INTENSE? My suspicious mind immediately began conjuring up what THAT would be like. My eyes darted to check if she had leather boots, fishnets and a whip. But the toilet seat blocked my view. Cringing, I said "something kind of in the middle."

 

As she started bending, folding, spindling and mutilating my somewhat plentiful and obviously middle-class flesh, she tried to put me at ease with cheerful chitchat:

 

"I just did (strrrrrrrrrrretch) Reba McEntire!"

 

You know, the country and western singing star.

 

My shoulders started shaking again, wondering whether Reba put HER face in a toilet seat, too. Then I had to ask:

 

"Are you going to brag to the NEXT customer that you just did aging matron Susan Williams of Omaha?"

 

Silence. Then she laughed artificiallyt, and completed the massage in stone, cold silence. I can imagine what she was thinking.

 

But what a massage!  It was great. I emerged, just as promised, a complete "noodle," with my hair in a towel, and a . . . toilet ring . . . around my face. Bet Reba had one, too.

 

It's a celebrity lifestyle. †