I’m pretty sure my massage therapist saw my boobs

Disclaimer: I’m going to give my opinion and my opinion only. If you are a super feminist, you may not like what I have to say. But then again, if you’re a modern feminist or a nudist,  you may totally agree.

I am at my most relaxed when I am at the hands of a massage therapist. I don’t need fancy aromatherapy oils — although I do enjoy them when available. I rely on a good deep tissue, muscle pounding rub down. Living in an era obsessed with self-care, I consider my monthly massages a necessity rather than a luxury. In a culture where the justification for my monthly treat exists in plentiful amounts, I am delighted and proud to be part of the wellness culture.

As far as massage therapists go, I prefer a male to a female or a masseur to a masseuse. Sexist? Perhaps…and here comes my first feminist faux pas: Men are generally stronger in my experience. This has been the case save for one Dominican woman with whom I book an appointment when my regular male therapist isn’t available. She is literally (well, not literally) an ox — and I say that with the utmost respect and admiration.

I’m also quite particular when it comes to the massage technique. I prefer deep tissue over any other type of massage, with varying the degree of pressure throughout my body: deep pressure on my back and feet, medium pressure on the upper legs and arms, light pressure on my lower legs.

In the past, this has caused a bit of confusion, resulting in a relaxation-interruptus in order for me to dole out instructions.  Now, if there’s one thing I hate while getting a massage is having to give direction. Like in sex. Figure out what I like, memorize it, and then just do it. No more questions, no more gentle guiding, no more “Yes, right there, there….now harder” (I’m talking about massages now).

So when I finally found someone who got me, understood my needs, and hasn’t had to be told what to do — or have his hands guided — I knew I had found my guy. (Again, people, I’m talking about massages.)

I book my masseur (let’s call him Arty) whenever he’s available. He’s professional, knowledgeable, and quiet ( I also don’t like when they speak to me). He’s perfect.

Except…

Last week, I’m pretty sure he accidentally on purpose saw my boobs.

He finished massaging my backside and asked me to turn over. When I turned over on my back, he left the sheet lifted a few seconds longer than normal…enough time to get a good peek at the Tatas. I’m not 100% sure he saw them, more like 99.9%, but from where he was standing and as high as he was lifting the sheet away from my body, he’d have to have his eyes closed not to see them.

My reaction: Good for Arty!

Clearly, I’m not shy about my body, and truth be told, I may be in my fifties, but my boobs are only in their 20’s.

Should I have been offended? I wasn’t.

However…

There was this one massage therapist about a year ago who massaged my ears. MY EARS. Sounds harmless I know. But I’m hard-pressed to think of a time when I’ve felt so righteously violated — like if he had shoved his tongue in my ear instead of his finger. I knew (intuitively) that my ears were turning him on. Either that or he was trying to steal my diamond studs. All I know is that it made me uncomfortable. Besides, not to judge an x-rated book by his cover or anything, but the guy looked like a creeper.

I don’t know if that qualifies as a “me too” scenario, but I didn’t feel like I could complain to management. What was I going to say, that the therapist fingered my ears? How do you prove such a thing?

Besides, like a proper feminist, I took care of it myself. I said NO…told the guy to cut it out, batted his hands away from my ears and went back to relaxation mode — albeit a little irritated that I was forced to come out of my meditative state.

I never booked the creeper again, and eventually, I heard he had been fired (no doubt for raping someone else’s ear).

But I can’t help but wonder (and I know the answer to this already as I write this) if the creeper hadn’t been a creeper at all but a young, hot guy. Would I have minded the ear sex?

I’d be remiss to not tell you this story…

For my 50th birthday, the hubby took me to a spa in Arizona. I booked several spa sessions before arrival and the first night was an 80-minute massage. My therapist was a young, hot Hawaiian named Steve (his real name).  Steve spent the entire 80 minutes charming me with behind-the-scenes stories of his job, talked about books he loved, his family, and his life in Hawaii (remember how I said I don’t like the massage therapists to speak? Well, aparently I make exceptions).

He even went as far as to compliment my body. He actually said my hamstrings were tight and asked me if I was a runner, but I took it as a body compliment.

After the massage, we met my hubby in the waiting room where he had just finished his massage with (what looked like) a Russian female wrestler. Steve shook my husband’s hand and said, “Your wife is awesome, we had the best conversation.”

My hubby looked at me suspiciously as asked, “You had a conversation? During a massage? Did you get a happy ending too?”

I looked at him, seriously contemplating that question, “Wait. Was that an option?”

See my point? (Feminists, look the other way.) I would’ve totally let Steve off the hook for getting a peek… or, ahem —

And although Arty is nowhere in the Steve category, he’s a nice guy. And if getting a peek at my boobs makes him happy with his job, hence his life, and encourages him to spread positive vibes to others, then I call that paying it forward. He gave me an excellent massage, which got me in a great mood, I allowed him a peek which got him in a great mood, and so on and so on. I’m sure he spread his joy throughout the day and made the world a brighter place.

My boobs are spreading positivity and light.

You may be asking: What the hell does this have to do with anti-aging? And the answer to that would be nothing. Absolutely nothing. We added a WTF category and by God, you better believe there are going to be posts that fit the category.

Besides — now stay with me here — isn’t part of the journey learning to love and accept yourself? My boobs are my one good feature, why shouldn’t I show them off?

And another thing. Don’t you find that the older you get, the less zero f**ks you give and the less hung up you are about certain things? I have found that the older I get, and therefore more concerned with wrinkles, a saggy butt, and mortality, the less problems I have with other less life-altering situations.

In other words, I finally don’t sweat the small stuff. And a peek at my nude body qualifies as a “small stuff” in my mind.

As my woo-woo-hippie friend, Tanya, says: It’s coming into your feminine power. As Susie in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel says, “Tits up.”

So, question: Am I letting Arty off the hook? Would you give Steve a pass? And would you feel differently if it were a woman massage therapist?

Chime in!

Next week there will be a real anti-aging post; just took a little detour.