Massage my panicky heart

Lest you think I completely live off My Love's income (well, pretty much I do), thought you should know I actually got hired by someone. A reader, in fact. That is frightening on so many levels.

From today on, I will also be writing a monthly column in the e-letter of the Aetheria Relaxation Spa. It's not only a great spa that gives you personal attention in a friendly, healing atmosphere, but it is also located right next to a funky tavern with Smithwick's on tap. I know this because that's where Beth, the coolest spa owner in the world, plied me with drink and mozzarella sticks during negotiations.

"Look at me," I said, wiping crumbs from my chin. "Why would you want this (pinching love handles, staining shirt with zesty marinara sauce stuck on fingers) to write a health column?"

"The monkey broke his arm," she said.

"OK, I want $500 per column, unlimited massages for me and the wife and a bowl of Skittles -- greens and yellows only -- in my dressing room."

"I'll buy you another pint."

That's better than I was making as a reporter! Sweeeeeet!

So, without further ado ... Your Uncool Health Columnist makes his debut:

I had my first heart attack at 24. At least I thought I did.

Chest pains, shortness of breath, numbness in the arms. "Ooo, it's the Big One, Elizabeth! I'm comin' to join ya, honey!"

Two ER trips, a couple of EKGs and a visit to a general practitioner later, the medical profession copped out on me with these conclusions:

I definitely had a sinus condition.

I may have pulled a chest muscle.

I was apparently prone to panic attacks.

Mucus issues - agreed. The chest muscle excuse I still don't buy because, honestly, overexertion for me at that stage in my life meant carrying TWO cases of beer from the car to the 'fridge. But panic attacks?

Since I paid enough attention to "ER" on Thursday nights to recognize most of the signs of a heart attack, apparently I had convinced myself that I was actually having one when the first pain hit. My overactive imagination just filled in the rest of the blanks, the docs said.

That made sense. The problem now was unconvincing myself that that I was headed to the cardiac care ward before I had even moved out of my parents' house. I spent a week or two lying on the couch (yes, my parents' couch), watching cable and being afraid to make any sudden moves.

One of my co-workers' suggested I try massage therapy to help me relax. That his girlfriend at the time was a licensed masseuse showed great confidence either in himself as a boyfriend or in her as a massage professional. Turned out to be both.

Thinking about that first massage, to this day, still makes the hair on my neck get delightfully tingly. I remember leaving her office that day craving food for the first time in weeks (though, in retrospect, a bread bowl of chili and Heineken may not have been the best meal). The smell of heated lavender oil stayed in my nasal passages for at least two days, and every intake of breath was a reminder of that etherealness under her fingers.

And elbows. I think she also climbed on my back and used her knees at one point. I was one uptight puppy in those days.

I started seeing her weekly for next few months. Gradually I tapered off when I felt completely back to my old self. After that I went back for a "tune up" every few months when I was feeling low or achy or just in need of an hour of tranquility under someone else's nimble fingers.

See, here's a secret: Guys like to be pampered, too.

OK, maybe not avocado-scrub and seaweed-wrap pampering (we'll deal with the perils of mud baths some other time). But if a guy won't admit to feeling some of the world's weight melt off after 60 minutes of having all the right pressure points warmed, oiled and kneaded, then he's lying. In fact, he's lying more now than he did when he said he polished off that zucchini quiche you made (psst, look inside the empty milk carton, under the coffee grounds, at the bottom of the trash).

I won't claim that every massage I've had since makes me feel the same way that first one did. But I've never come out of one looking to the sky and clutching my shirt and quoting Fred G. Sanford. I've only come out feeling peaceful, rested and ready to take on the next challenge.

Or the next bread bowl of chili.

Hope I didn't rub you the wrong way. Now, please massage my status over at Humor-Blogs.com by clicking the link and giving me a smiley face. Thanks!