Yesterday afternoon I had my first long-awaited massage with Luata Bray, who is absolutely added to my stable of people. Actually, "stable" is perhaps more insulting and inappropriate, in some ways, than "arsenal". I'll keep looking for the right adjective . . . Anyway, she was fantastic. Warm, sweet, funny, highly accomplished. She massaged my sides, she massaged my belly, she massaged my inner thighs, which, even though they haven't gripped a horse in a couple months, still carried remnants of tight. She massaged my head, and pointed out a huge benefit to cancer baldness. It was heavenly, that head massage, with no hair in the way.
After my massage, which took place in the neighborhood of a dear friend who's also gimpy right now, I chose to walk, s l o w l y, up to her house to visit for awhile (Ian came and had dinner after work). It was ten blocks in the less-than-70-degree hazy June Seattle sun, and it was glorious. It's the farthest I've walked in a month, I think, and I did okay. I didn't breathe hard the whole time (did I say I was s l o w?), until I reached her house, and climbed the, oh, 15 stairs? up to her flat. I collapsed on the couch then. She was lying face down on a massage table, because her back is out and she's been told by her physical therapist that tummy time is necessary for stretching. Anyone with an infant will understand her attitude exactly—she was not enjoying it—tummy time seems to be fun for no one.
She's been on her own collection of steroids and other drugs, so we had a quavery conversation for about an hour, then I conked out on the couch for 45 snorey minutes before dinner, completely spent by my exertions.
But I had exertions!