Shiatsu Stuffs

Saturday I got The Call: The first stranger-client, a recipient of one of the gym massage-chair demos. I booked her for 9:30 the next day, and upon hanging up the phone, determined that I was a fraud and charlatan and undertrained. G reminded me that I've put in more hours of training than an airline pilot. I'm not sure that made me feel better about shiatsu so much as worse about aviation, but it made me grin nonetheless.

The next morning, after a hard night of birthday bowling (candlepin, natch), I donned my jammy-like shiatsu clothes, armed myself with disinfected glass cups and extra intake forms (just in case), and headed for the office. As soon as I stepped inside, the dreamy scent of my massage room put me at ease. I jumped up-and-down thrice, saying out loud, "God, I LOVE my office!" (I'm the only practitioner there on Sundays.) The session went great, and my new client--an amazing person whose lifestory I was honored to hear--is considering signing up for the five-session discount pack.

After the session I reversed my setup with the help of G and our visiting friend J, stripping the sheets off my futon, rolling the futon up and stashing it in the closet, and returning the hulking massage table to its usual station in my subletted room. I switched off all the lights and carefully turned the heat down to 60. On my way out, I grabbed the reflexologist's card, wondering if a woman whimsical enough to put glittery gold footprints on a business card would be up for a trade. (Today I called her, chatted with a kindred spirit, and arranged to meet her next Sunday. Ah, an extra benefit of shiatsu training: free bodywork for free bodywork.)

Then G, J, and I had a lovely celebratory brunch.