I’m a masseuse and a personal trainer. Being both does seem to make some people a little apologetic when I first massage them. Not people. Women. Some women think that while I’m ironing out their tired legs with my forearm that I am judging their size, reeling from their cellulite, measuring their girth with my fingers. I’m not. And the last thing they need do is ever apologise about their own body. Especially to me.
Feeling someone relax under your hands is such a magical thing. It’s such a privilege to lay your hands on someone. To say to someone – this is your time, I am your servant, you relax, breathe and let me iron out your hurts and knead away your worries. The last thing I think of when I’m massaging is about how many stairs my client can do on the stair master and if their thighs might be a bit smaller. My personal trainer eyes switch focus when I’m massaging because when I massage every body is incredibly beautiful and every body is worthy of being touched and nurtured.
Of course, as a personal trainer I’m mean as hell… but that’s another story.