Rub Me the Right Way

For Christmas, Billy and I were given a gift certificate to receive, as a couple, massages and dinner at a resort about an hour away. The certificate itself, loopy script on the outside envelope announcing the contents are "Especially for you," has been sitting in my unmentionables drawer for months. We've been saving it, waiting to use it, initially, until our return from Belize. We reasoned that we'd be bummed out about our return to home after ten days in paradise, so there the certificate sat. Waiting. Getting massages, though, got lost in the shuffle of getting back home. Too much was going on to focus on making and keeping an appointment to get rubbed down.

Before we knew it, May had passed us by entirely and June was upon us. "We need to go get that massage!" Billy would say, reaching around to rub his own back for emphasis. But, still, our weekends were filled. Family obligations mixed with the desire to just stay home and have some time to ourselves kept us from scheduling it then. Even though that green envelope sang to me with each opening of my drawer, reminding me that I could be laying face-down on a plush table, getting rubbed down by some man with strong hands who would use fragrant oils and who would probably pay some panflute music in the background, I still put off scheduling our date.

So I moved the certificate from the drawer to my nightstand. Just so we could remember.

The last week of June, Billy turned to me, just before we climbed into bed, with the certificate in his hand. "Let's go do this. Seriously. We need to schedule it, or we're never going to do it." I nodded and tucked the certificate in my purse.

I scheduled it for this weekend.

Little did I know then that I'd need it now more than ever. I need to be removed from the people I know, the sights I see, and just spend some time with my boyfriend.

I will be spending that time here:


We have massages scheduled for late afternoon, so that we can spend a majority of the day walking the grounds of the Mohonk Mountain House, a place so beautiful that I nearly fainted when I looked it up online. I'd never heard of it before, much less been there, but the giver of the gift assured us it was incredible. I had no idea it was this incredible. Our massages will be followed by a brief interlude of an hour or so, and then it's onto a fancy dinner - to which Billy is required to wear a jacket and I am "encouraged" to dress up. But "encouraging" me to dress up is like "encouraging" a fish to wear scales. I was elated to discover it would be not only relaxing, but also dressy. I've been looking forward to it for weeks.

Last night, I couldn't stop complaining about my back. It hurt no matter what position I was in, standing, sitting or lying down. Motrin wasn't helping, and neither was my old friend Vodka. "I hate to ask you this," I said to Billy, arching my back to alleviate the pressure I felt, "but could you maybe rub my back for a minute? Right here?" I put my hand over my lower back and gave him a pitiful look.

"Of course, baby."

In the middle of his task, he spoke: "Hey! Our massages are this weekend, huh?" He said it as though he'd just remembered.

"Yes they are," I said into the pillow.

"Good. You could use it." He leaned down and kissed my back.

"So could you." My voice was muffled, so I rolled my head to the side to look at him. A truly excellent boyfriend is a boyfriend who will rub your achy back four days before your scheduled hour long Swedish massage. "You deserve it," I said, smiling at him over my shoulder.

"I can't wait," he said, smiling back and kneading exactly the spot that hurt.

Me neither.