Get Your Hot Rocks Off...Me

What's the big deal about a hot rock massage?

Apparently people flock to this treatment like they've never had a hot pack on a sprained muscle before. Sheesh. I mean, who doesn't love to feel the warmth of a soothing, heated SOFT towel on that lower lumbar region? Speaking as a member of the "I've had two--count 'em--two" back surgeries club, I have discovered that the tenuous placement of hot rocks on my meridians, or chakras or marma points (all nomenclature for assorted techniques) leaves me tense and irritated. Literally. As in red blisters.

Let's back up, so to speak. After hearing raves about this treatment, say, 7 years ago, I bit the bullet and had flat slabs placed on my naked bod. It wasn't bad, because the rocks weren't really hot, merely warm, and the guy (Steve! I remembered a name!) at Equinox in NYC was agile, careful and professional. Meaning he always kept my lady parts covered and discreetly held the sheet up when it was time to flip over.

So that wasn't horrible and it was a soothing experience, I must admit. So I went on my merry way, warmed up (it was in the winter, a good time to have this treatment as opposed to say, August in Tucson) and happy. Until I had to face reality and body block my way through the Upper West Side. Oh you tourists! Here's a tip to NYC visitors: Don't clot the sidewalks in groups, don't stop suddenly (New Yorkers in stride will tackle you by mistake) and never, never never wear white socks and sandals with your lederhosen.

Now then. Any spa treatment in New York City has a terrible downside. Eventually you must leave the warm cocoon of pampering and put your armor back on to face the hordes of drop-jawed Europeans. Or Minnesotans. Or Whateverans. It's a bummer. Another reason to flee life in the big city. For me, anyway.

Hot rocks. Yes, I know, a little sidebar on tourists. This will happen on occasion as my attention span is that of a hummingbird. I will try to focus. For your benefit.

So, after a successful first time with the hot rock treatment (Steve was well-trained by someone in Arizona, I believe, who apparently knew what they were doing) I thought all hot rock massages would be about the same. As Amy Winehouse sings (not about rocks)....("......no, no no!") hot rocks are not created equal. Nor are their handlers.

Without giving away the actual spa in which I experienced the following, let's just say it was in a state that begins with the letter "U," I have been fully weaned off this faddish massage. First off, the "spa" felt more like an old high school gym. No ambiance, no atmosphere (except the smell of sweat) and a space with echoing walls. I checked in at what looked like a hospital desk and proceeded to head to the, again, gym-like locker "area," which was creepy and smelly.

Should have picked up the signals right then and there and gotten my sweet self out. But no, I had to check out the "Signature Hot Rock Treatment"! Boy, was that a mistake. Not only was the treatment room a barren, chilly space with walls so thin you could hear the bad jokes whispered in the hall, it smelled bad to boot. And with Enya playing in the background (I can't stand Enya, sorry. In fact I hate any vocalizing music during a treatment. Too distracting.) my mood was not lifted.

Only later in my spa-going career did I realize that (duh) you can politely ask your therapist to change the music, soften the lights, get you the hell out of a bath or whatever request you may have) so I lay there like a tense lump. And got tenser as the treatment was under way.

Maybe it was a bad day for her, maybe she was new. I didn't care, I just wanted a warm, soothing treatment after a long day of hiking. Ha. Noisily arranging the hot stones, she (who will not be named because I'm nice that way) began chit-chatting. Now, I'm not a chit-chatter in normal day-to-day activities. And certainly not in the mood for small talk when lying butt-naked in front of a stranger.

So perhaps her attempt to connect with me distracted her from her task at hand. Whatever. All I know is, after placing a too-hot flat slab on my lower back and then two more on my shoulders, I yelped. "A little less heat please" was my request. No problem. So I naively thought. The next thing I knew was two huge flat rocks, apparently intended for my neck, were dropped on my head instead. Whoopsie! When the stars cleared and the throbbing on my scalp abated a bit, I came to (no, I never lost consciousness) and was shocked that I was actually hit upside my head.
During a massage. WTF?

Of course she (who will not be named) was thoroughly embarrassed and quickly tried to come to my aid. But she must have skipped her grace-in-motion class because while putting the rocks back in the warming tray, she knocked over the entire thing! I covered my head as they thumped on the tile floor. Not a pretty sound.

Needless to say, after the ice pack was finally removed from my bruised temple, I staggered out of the "spa" vowing never to have another hot rock treatment. And I never have. Come to think of it, it's just another gimmick, another time-waster that takes a therapist away from a soothing treatment.

Hot rocks take time to warm up, the therapist has to gingerly place them here and there and instead of delighting in an uninterrupted flow of gentle (or not-gentle) massage, your actual massage time is probably shaved by a third. Another trend that has out-lived its benefits. So, in my opinion, hot rocks are for the birds. To perch on.

Next time: Gooooooood treatments....