Hypna...something...

Many years ago a fellow work colleague and I had our own private little competition on who could slip in the  most complicated word into a general sentence when talking to one another, or in a team meeting.

Because it was a competition, I became competitive, and as the months passed I scored more points on the chalk board than he, much to his chagrin.  But we did have bonus points if we truly thought the other had come up with a sans pareil word.  He tended to win many of those.  Most of those words have completely left my memory banks, with the exception of one - hypnagogic.

And hypnagogic is the perfect word to what has been a most surreal period of time over my past few months. 

Life has not been plebeian for me for some time now.  And it's all good.  I find myself constantly reflecting on the daily experiences I have been going through.

My lovely son, partner & grandson gave me a Dawn French diary at Christmas which means I am to journal my daily happenings.  A great tool to remind me just what a heteromorphic life I am leading of late.

This week is a perfect example.  After all, there are only 4 days in this working week and every day has found me doing, experiencing or sharing heteroclite experiences.

For instance, at one point I found myself unexpectedly travelling the Desert Road;  or, meeting and sharing my home with some delightful and intriguing guests; been wined and dined out by folk who were once my major nemesis; done a road trip with Young Son (which I have not done since he was a teenager - he's now mid-40's); was in the Auckland Museum at 6.45 a.m. one morning when I was in Taupo merely 12 hours earlier; fare welled a much loved cousin at the celebration of his life in a major central Auckland church then found myself in a Thai restaurant in Taupo only 4 hours later.  I have been riding on my Gaye Bike along the Taupo lakefront cycleway on an evening with the most gloriously hued sunsets - with a delightful gentleman I'd only met a few hours earlier who, in our short initial conversation, we discovered knew a number of my old associates from a previous sporting interest I had in my 20's; and then there was today.

Today, a day I had presumed would be relatively quiet, mundane, and domestic.  I had scribed a list last night of the various jobs I planned to do during the day; the usual things - changing linens, washing laundry, vacuuming, paying bills, clean water fountain, mow the lawns, prune trees, Healing Hands ... very normal, domestic things, except for the Healing Hands.

Almost a year ago a darling friend of mine from Dubai was staying with me in my home.  As a leaving gift she benevolently handed me an envelope that was clearly a card and due to its thickness I knew it had something other than just a card inside.    I chose not to open the card at the time as they can often have words scripted in it that would put me into a sentimentally, teary mode when already upset at saying sorrowful goodbyes to someone I wish did not have to leave.  I chose to put the card aside and wait until a quiet and special moment, when on my own, to open, read and quietly feel grateful for whatever it was that had been inserted as a gift.

I think it was almost five weeks later when I felt the want to open the card and read whatever words had been ascribed on it.  It was, as expected, a lovely card with lovely words, I become hopelessly sentimental when people write nice things. 

And as expected, inside the card there was something else.  It was a gift voucher.  A gift voucher that stated I would be the lucky recipient of a manicure, and foot pedicure.

Us of the feminine gender love having pedicures - far more than manicures.  Indeed, think both genders delight in having someone's hands rub the sensitive nerve cells of the foot. 

It had been a long time since I spoilt myself with paying for a pedicure.  Prior to Tony's slow demise, he used to massage my feet almost nightly if we were couch bound and watching television.  And of course, his renown ability with his sports massage meant I could never complain about tight muscles due to extreme exercising we would be doing as he was always happy to use his own healing hands on those sore calf muscles, tight quads and hamstrings.  How lucky I was.  I so miss those regular massage table dates we used to book each other into.  That's sports massage, for those with wandering minds!

So when I read this gift voucher my little heart skipped a happy beat and I determined that I would savour the expectation of the pedicure for when I felt my feet, and my soul, were truly ready for the half hour of tootsie bliss.

And last week was it.  I'd been run off my feet, literally, for some time - therefore the ebullience of the expectation of foot euphoria had been building up until I knew I'd appreciate it most.

I walked myself up to the Healing Hands premises for my checked in time of 10 a.m.  I had arranged to meet someone at 11.30 and knew there would be ample time to enjoy the contentment of sitting back and having my feet scrubbed, trimmed, bathed, massaged, oiled and nails painted.

And that is what happened.

It was glorious.

I tried so very hard to not emit happy, yet guttural moaning sounds throughout the whole procedure.  Even just sitting still in a laid back, leather podiatary chair-come-bed was heaven in itself.  I was purring out loud.

When lady had painted on the last of the toe nail polish and left me for a good ten minutes for it to thoroughly dry, I savoured those few extra minutes and sat back, eyes closed and almost nodded off. Such was the result of the relaxation and treat.

She returned to the room, I moved to rise off the bed to leave.

"No, no," says she, "now comes the best bit.  Just stay there.  And take off your top and bra and I'll begin the next part of the session."

"What?" says I, "it's only a pedicure I'm here for, isn't it?" 

"No, no.  You're here for the full treatment.  Back, shoulder and head massage, full facial and hand massage to finish off.  You are here for another 2 hours yet."

"Really?" says I. "Are you sure?" 

Surely she had this wrong.  I was sure my Desert Princess in Dubai had only purchased a pedicure.  I questioned the lady.  "No," says she, "I remember your friend very well and I remember her specifically wanting you to have this treat."

"Look at it as reward for paying it forward."

I confess - to then, being like any cat who one picks up and begins to pamper - I flopped back, I let all the tension go, without uttering another word my body told her "take me" ....   I purred all the more.

A further two hours of just lying still, doing nothing, rolling over when gently prodded, being smoothly rubbed and massaged, steamed on, heated towelled, sponged, creamed, sponged, creamed some more, rubbed some more.  Neck muscles feeling the pleasure of fingers prodding in to those tights bits; it's years since I've had Mr J do that.  This may not have been him, but I didn't care; didn't care who was on the other end of those Healing Hands.  It was glorious.

 

Somewhere in all this fussing and rubbing I did mention to her that whilst in this a vulnerable position a photo should be taken and sent to Desert Princess, to show her and have her enjoy the gift she so generously gave, the wonderful gift she had given to this woman who is going through the most ethereal period of her life.  She added even more surealty to it.

And at the risk of yet again making a fool of myself, I share the photos that were sent to me later in the day. 

The pity of it is, there was no photo taken of this 37-plus year old woman, who left the Healing Hands premises, literally walking as lightly as a fairy due to the delectated, seventh heaven three hours she had ravishingly enjoyed in being pampered on, over and with. 

It was hypnagogic.