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That Airport Life, Quickie Massages And How Not Everything Has To Be Good

Hi, Friend.

Have you seen “The Terminal”? It’s a movie about a guy who ends up living at the JFK airport after being denied entry to the US, and at the same time being unable to return to his own country. I have lived an entire life in various airports. Not quite “The Terminal”, but also - yes, just in smaller chunks. I’ve had meals and naps. Had drinks and coffee - by myself and with strangers. I’ve worked out, and gotten my nails done. I’ve gone shopping. Gotten a massage. After a busy weekend of speaking, I welcome an opportunity to interact with another human being without uttering a single word. The airport massage spa is beautifully transactional - get in, get out, keep your clothes on. It’s appealing. My shoulders are duct taped to my ears. The masseuse’s name is Sachko. I am guessing he is Serbian - an Eastern-European he-man with salt and pepper hair. Sachko points at a stool where I can leave my bag, and then nods for me to take position at the BDSM looking contraption - face down, arms down, gaze down. I take off my cashmere cardigan, coat and unwrap the scarf, and assume position. There is no foreplay, as Sachko puts two hands on my shoulders, and starts thrusting me into the headrest of the massage contraption with the efficiency and determination that would make Magic Mike jealous. The knots in my shoulders do not stand a chance. “How’s the pressure?” His voice, slow and soft, like my cashmere cardigan, is in sharp contrast to the rhythmic thrusting. Good”, I assure him, simultaneously clenching my teeth and unclenching my buttocks. Later that week, I mention my airport massage quickie to my regular massage therapist. He doesn’t even blink. The airport massage is so far from actual massage, it’s not even cheating. That’s like a Ferrari being jealous of a tuna can. Airport coffee, airport shopping, airport massage. All of these things - quick and dirty. Not for real, but enough to sort-of count. Hurried. Rushed. Tied to a clock. And not very good. Nothing at the airport (apart from the flights themselves, hopefully) is trying to be GOOD. But then… the goals are different. The PURPOSE is different. No one gets a massage at the airport to get a good massage. You get a massage at the airport, because you are bored, because you just want an-ok shoulder rub, because it’s better than staring at your phone for twenty minutes, because it gives you something to write about in your newsletter. For all (above) intents and purposes, my airport massage is good enough on all counts. Also… not everything has to be good all the time. There. I said it. What a relief. lol I read Fifty Shades of Grey, KNOWING it would be bad. It was SO bad. Like… hurt-my-teeth-uncomfortably-blushing BAD writing. But it gave me a little glimpse into popular culture (as everyone was reading it at the time), entertained me for a few hours, AND gave me fodder to write a hilarious review. I had a great time. Consider now all those “less-than-perfect” meals you might have had in the last week or month. Chances are, most of them were “good enough” for your intents and purposes at the time. There is a time and place for a three egg-white omelette with vegetables. But there is also a time and a place for McDonalds breakfast McMuffin. A pre-made protein smoothie in a plastic bottle. A coffee and a bagel. Leftover curry chicken. In my books the WHAT matters significantly less than the WHY behind the WHAT. Conscious decision making, baby. I’m all about that.



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