To the pleasure of touch

I am currently studying for a Certificate IV in massage therapy. The course is ten months, part-time, which I juggle alongside my full-time job as a machine operator for Michelin tyres. My primary goal in taking this course was to give my current and future partners great massages because

no one can decline a free massage,

the fastest way to a person’s heart is through physical touch, and

I needed something new to fill my free time.

For years, my daily routine was work, gym, eat, sleep, repeat. I wanted to break the cycle by deliberately adding an extra element: school. Life has been hectic, but it’s been rewarding. I am

meeting new people in class, which is something rare and special as an adult, and

learning skills to add to my bottomless pit of life’s toolkit.

Today, I’m at my sister’s house party, celebrating Albert’s first birthday. Many people here know I’m studying massage, and soon enough, requests come my way—a sore neck, a tight back. I could easily say no, I’m tired, I have class tomorrow, maybe another time.

But I don’t.

I’m excited to help, even though acts of service are at the bottom of my five love language list. When my hands find the oil and then their backs, I think about why I feel this excitement and it takes a while before the answers hit me.

After six relatives and three hours, I’m not tired. I thank my years of gym discipline for that. I’m not relieved it’s over. And, most of all, I don’t resent the time it took. Instead, I feel peace in easing their pain—whether it’s neck pain, back pain, or the ache of missing human touch. Even brief moments of touch can bring someone unexpected pleasure or healing.

The last man I massage is drunk, and he falls asleep the moment he lies down on the table. He’s married, and I’ve had a small crush on him. I think to myself, this is the closest we’ll ever be. I massage his arm, and even in his sleep, he grips mine from time to time. I continue, steady, relieving the tension in his muscles and, maybe, some of the burdens this world has placed on him.

Therefore, massage, to me, feels like an honourable step toward healing. A woman lies on the table, her back tight and solid like a wooden plank. I feel excitement because I know she desperately needs help, and I have the tools and knowledge to provide it. My hands become instruments of relief, if only temporarily, and that’s a powerful thing—to lessen someone’s burden, even for a moment.