Jump to navigation. Lord knows I could use a massage. Work finds me chained to a computer, where my best efforts at ergonomics make little dent in the insidious strain that is all too common in the electronic age. My lower back constantly taunts that I have neither the proper posture nor the abdominal strength to prevent its aches. And then there are sports.
Years of basketball left me with aching knees and various other torments. Today, playing tennis has led to a sore elbow and shoulder, as well as assorted other pains.
Skiing causes my legs to ache and my Achilles tendon to rebel, sending ominous warnings up my leg. The pains that are part and parcel of playing have a decidedly different impact on me than they did 20 years ago. Nagging injuries now nag for weeks, even months, while serious injuries cause my athletic career to flash before my eyes. I was exposed to massage before, in the too-distant past, and had enjoyed it. Perhaps there were other, more personal reasons. I often wondered how I got to this point.
But I got over my misgivings. Not only did I need a massage, and could afford one, I convinced myself I deserved one. I struggled for a moment with the idea of a female therapist. But rave recommendations from friends, who assured me I would literally be in good hands, tipped my hand toward Swanson.
I approached her office with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. My fears evaporated soon after I arrived. After completing a standard medical history form, Swanson welcomed me to a comfortable chair, where we spent about 20 minutes talking.
