By the time our ship docked into the Greek port city of Thessaloniki, I was unable to move. I could blink, but not without effort. After ten days of touring and nearly 70 miles of surveying ancient ruins and navigating crooked cobblestones, my back and legs said “uncle” and went on strike.
Susan suggested I avail myself of a massage treatment at the ship’s Spa, and thus, an appointment was scheduled with a Romanian woman named Vanya. I don’t like massages. They hurt and I never know where to put my wallet.
Rivaling the check in procedure of a cardiologist, I was asked to complete a 3- page questionnaire indicating existing ailments, previous surgeries, and a comprehensive list of medication. I wrote down my history of lumbar spondylosis, Achilles tendinopathy, and trigger finger. Vanya studied my responses and reviewed my medications, all the while silently nodding and on occasion, furrowing her brow, and finally looked up and asked, “where does it hurt?”.
I pointed to and rubbed my glutes and piriformis muscles and indicated that my back felt like a rusty hinge. Vanya’s initial prognosis was that the sugars in my muscle fluid had turned acidic. I made a mental note to add “acidic muscle fluid” to my ever -growing list of ailments.
I persisted, “Vanya, are you telling me that there is schmutz in my muscular fluid, due to excessive schlepping and shpilkus”?
Vanya got very stern with me, “this is not good” she said with eastern European consternation. You must drink more water, you must get more sleep, you must strengthen your abdominal core muscles, and you must always be stvetching. Stvetch and more stvetch.
Vanya recommended a deep tissue massage followed by a “Thermal Treatment”. The Thermal Treatment had no currency symbol next to its price tag on the treatment menu but given the magnitude, I thought surely the price must be in Turkish Lira. So, I agreed to the extra few bucks.
Vanya’s technique was no different than how the depression generation “works” a tube of toothpaste. She started at the feet, and, working upwards, pressed, squeezed, and kneaded every centimeter of bone, muscle, and cartilage until the last drop of acidic muscle fluid squirted from my nostrils.
When the massage and thermal treatments were done and after a wind-down period consisting of cucumber water and Amazonian flute music, Vanya came back into the room for my final consultation. Smiling and with a softer tone, she once again explained the importance of staying hydrated, eating sensibly and “stvetching”. She recommended a follow-up “sea-veed” treatment to extract the remaining schmutz and shpilkus.
In a nutshell, my dear readers, the Kid (that’s me) still has some good muscle tone. The bad news is that, despite two Moderna boosters, it is receding rapidly.
I did leave the treatment room feeling renewed and invigorated.
And then I got the bill, which was not in Turkish Lira after all. At these prices, I decided I would get my own sea-veed at the next port. Bastards!