STRANGER THAN FICTION: MASSEUSE MAY BE SMALL IN STATURE BUT BIG IN HANDS

You know you've gotten a bad massage when you ask your husband if he sees any bruises.

Linda absolutely loved her professional massage.

The masseur's hands were barely off her back when she started burning up the phone lines to her friends. It was like she'd hooked up with a new boyfriend, only less expensive because she didn't have to replace those comfortable, roomy cotton undergarments with the more sexy, silky variety.

"Mark was soooooo wonderful!" she squealed. "He does this thing where he takes both thumbs and runs them down my spine, and he uses this oil that smells minty ..."

No doubt about it -- Linda was hooked on massage. She went back to Mark about once a month, longing for the touch that could rub all her problems away.

Little wonder, then, that I immediately started dropping hints to The Other Half that my next gift should be a professional massage. Sure enough, on our wedding anniversary in April, a little envelope labeled "A Gift For You" showed up on the counter.

Inside was 30 minutes of heaven.

But then it hit me -- entertaining the idea of a massage by a stranger and actually getting one are two different things. Apparently, I was going to have to strip down to my comfortable, roomy cotton drawers (hey! I've been married four years!) and lie on a table while a stranger discovered that unsightly birthmark only viewed by about four people in my entire life.

So it took me until last Sunday to work up some nerve and cash in my gift certificate. And there was a WHOLE lot of stress in my life between April and last Sunday.

I prepared in the best way I knew how. Showered, shaved my legs -- no easy task on a 6-foot-tall woman -- and put on some perfume.

And then I didn't get Mark, The King Of All Masseurs. I got Rebekah, The Shortest Masseuse Alive.

I was wondering how this woman would even reach my back, never mind give me a good massage. But I was wrong.

So wrong.

She directed me into a small room with a massage table, a really dim lamp and a wide array of massage oils. New age music trickled out of a speaker in one corner -- waves, breezes, sitar, that kind of stuff.

Rebekah calmly directed me to take off my shirt and bra and whatever other clothing I felt comfortable removing and to get face-down under a sheet on the table. She went to "wash up." I pictured her coming back with a surgical mask and latex gloves.

I stripped. She returned.

And I got the working over of a lifetime.

I'm not sure how a girl who couldn't possibly weigh more than 90 pounds could put 200 pounds of pressure on my back, but she did.

"Tell me if it gets uncomfortable," she said.

"It's uncomfortable," I replied.

She lightened up to only 175 pounds of pressure.

Parts of the massage -- or "touch therapy," as my New Age friend Rebekah called it -- were truly pleasant. Other parts seemed to be a resurrection of some ancient torture method.

At the end, I was truly relaxed. Or maybe the better word is relieved ... that it was over.

I went home to The Other Half and lifted up my shirt. "Do you see any bruises?" I asked.

"No. Just the birthmark," he said.

It really hit me when I woke up the next morning and barely possessed the power of movement.

But I'm not giving up on massage. At least I was able to overcome my fear of stripping down in front of strangers, although I'm not sure the value of that talent other than for the adult entertainment industry.

And next time, I'm asking for Mark.