Facebook Stories

Don’t Touch Me

A Facebook friend posted a link to this story:

I’ve been a massage therapist for many years now. I know what people look like.

People have been undressing for me for a long time. I know what you look like: a glance at you, and I can picture pretty well what you’d look like on my table.

Let’s start here with what nobody looks like: nobody looks like the people in magazines or movies. Not even models. Nobody. Lean people have a kind of rawboned, unfinished look about them that is very appealing. But they don’t have plump round breasts and plump round asses. You have plump round breasts and a plump round ass, you have a plump round belly and plump round thighs as well. That’s how it works. (And that’s very appealing too.)

Woman have cellulite. All of them.

It’s dimply and cute. It’s not a defect. It’s not a health problem. It’s the natural consequence of not consisting of photoshopped pixels, and not having emerged from an airbrush.


massage Though I can appreciate the message behind this post: no one is perfect – we all have imperfections. Embrace your bodies, flaws and all, blahblahblah …

I can’t get past the whole “massage” thing. I can’t get past the whole “touching” me thing.

I’ve never done a massage. I have NO DESIRE to have a massage, now, or ever. The thought of some stranger, no matter how well trained and impersonal, touching me – even the most innocent of touches, makes me want to hurl.

It literally makes me shudder to think about it. I’m literally writing this while shuddering with disgust. I can’t do it, I just can’t do it. I know me. I would never be able to relax, or even come close to enjoying a massage. And I know I would be counting down the minutes until the torture was over. And then I would be annoyed because I just spent money on something I did not enjoy and can’t wait to be over. And then I would leave even more tense than when I went in.

I can’t even stand going to the dentist, or the doctor, or the hair dresser ..

Want to keep that hand? Do. Not. Touch. Me.

I don’t like to be touched. I don’t even like Kevin to touch me very much, WHICH IS AN ISSUE WHEN YOU’RE MARRIED.

But after nearly 24 years of marriage, I’ve learned to deal with my issues when it comes to Kevin. And I’m telling you right now, Kevin is the ONLY person I would ever allow to touch me.

I’m not even a hugger. I don’t like to hug. I don’t like to be in other people’s personal spaces and I get DEFENSIVE when someone is in my personal space.

I’m sure there is a psychological reason for my distaste. I’m sure it likely stems from my childhood, in fact, I’m pretty sure where it stems from, but that’s not something I wish to share with the Internet. Ever.

So yes. I agree our bodies are imperfect and we shouldn’t spend an insane amount of time obsessing on those imperfections, but I’m more grossed out by the thought this guy voluntarily touches all of those imperfect bodies on a nightly basis. (Nothing against this particular guy – I’m sure he’s very nice and very good at what he does, it’s me. And my issue).

Just .. yuk.

I realize I’m in the minority on this and yes, I’m weird. This is not surprising.