Foot Massage Or Not, The Kid Is Still In There
39 weeks. That’s how long there has been a human living inside me. I know, technically he is allowed up to 42, but let me tell you a secret.
Seriously, pregnancy is wonderful. Until about 34-36 weeks. Then it gets down right uncomfortable and miserable and nothing but a giant ball of intense anxiety about getting him out. So you can imagine my delight this weekend when I started having regular contractions. For two fucking days . That stopped and have yet to return.
Sigh. So now you are stuck with yet another pregnant blog. But you know what? I have something fun for you this morning. Because if there’s anything I’m better at than complaining, it’s making fun of other people.
Enter: The reflexologist.
On Friday, I decided to try reflexology. I had done the spicy, the sex, the walking, the bouncing. All of it. Then I went to the local
witch doctor health food store and got some oils to burn that are supposed to help get things going. They mentioned reflexology. A foot rub that induces labour? Fucking right on, bitches!
Did you know that the term reflexology is such a quack term that my spell check won’t accept it? I didn’t even try and put a Canadian “u” or anything in it, Don.
Anyway, supposedly there are pressure points in the feet and hands that can and do help induce labour. So I thought, what the hell do I have to lose? Besides 50 bucks, that is.
So I go to my appointment, and as with all massage, etc, the room is lowly lit and set up for “relaxation”. Except for the dude giving the foot magic is jacked up like a fucking gerbil on bath salts and will NOT stop talking ever. Not for one second. I hate it when hair dressers/massage therapist/pedicure people assume that I want to fucking talk to them the whole time. I talk to people all day. I listen to a toddler babble gibberish at me non stop. When I pay someone to help me relax, I want them to shut. the. fuck. up.
So as I’m in this “anti-gravity chair” thing that has my feet and legs up in the air, and me halfway upside down, I start wondering if I will run out of oxygen before the end of my appointment. Somehow, I manage to figure out a way to breathe, while Chatty Cathy fails to notice me gasping for air.
As he’s rubbing my feet, he’s sort of closing his eyes and talking about my lymphatic system not draining and how I must be experiencing inflammation and my stomach protruding.
Are you fucking kidding me? NO shit, asshole. I’m 1010 months pregnant. You know, the WHOLE reason why I came here in the first place? For you to massage the baby out of my goddamn feet? Stop trying to prove how amazing you are at your quack therapy by stating obvious things and get this kid out. I bet that the inflammation and protruding stomach will go away in a big hurry.
Then, as I’m trying to “relax” he starts talking about how the Americans are killing all the bees in North America. And how that will kill the bees everywhere. And how other countries are willing to go to war for their bees because the world is going to starve to death in 4 years without them. And that this will be WWIII, and it will consist mainly of cannibalism. And that cocoa bean cure cancer. And doctors are no good. And I should make my own baby formula.
And I’m thinking: Women go into labour from the stress of spending an hour with this fucking asshole. Seriously.
So finally the end of my appointment comes. He lifts my legs up and exclaims excitedly about how much the swelling has gone down in my legs. Really? Cause they were just elevated for an hour. You must be a healer!
So. My review? Having someone rub your feet for an hour doesn’t suck. But I betcha the kind of foot massage I could get at home for a case of beer and really good BJ would relax me a whole lot more. And there are probably a few other aspects of the “do it yourself” kit that would likely evict this kid too.
Keep your money, or go for a pedicure instead girls.