MotherSister Brooklyn

Your ol’ MomSis had a birthday a couple of weeks ago, and as far as my ability to cope with my age goes, it is the best of times and the worst of times. By my reckoning as a child, 32 is the age when a woman reaches full flower: Think Dorothy Dandridge circa Carmen Jones (below) or Marlene Dietrich circa The Blonde Venus. It’s the age of my own mother when I began to recognize her as a fully separate, mysterious, unknowable entity. But in spite of all the ways that giving birth and raising my boy has elevated me, it has left me feeling a little physically battered and emotionally as if I’ve aged 18 years instead of 18 months. Maggie Gyllenhaal may be MILFing it up while her daughter’s still in diapers, but I’ve been tongue-tied when attempting to carry on conversations with women just 6 years younger than I am. Don’t be so quick to dismiss my hand-wringing; someone at The Onion knows what I’m talkin’ ’bout.

I don’t know that I can do anything about the burning AARP sensation I get when I talk to a 25-year-old now — except avoid sentences that begin with the words “Back in my day…” and conclude “you’ll feel differently when you’re a little older” — but physically, it’s time to do something besides serve as The Scamp’s balance beam. After penciling into my calendar the resumption of marital relations sometime in 2016 or when The Scamp goes to sleep-away camp (whichever comes first), I decided that the first order of business was a massage. In my postpartum fog, I missed a 90-minute rubdown at SoHo Sanctuary, the most valuable present I’ve ever wasted. Though I was tempted to try there again, with the encouragement of The Hub and a recommendation from a local listserv, I decided to keep it local and give Cynergy Spa the business.

You could almost miss Cynergy, which is in a brownstone just tucked into Fort Greene Place. I ran a little late for my appointment, but when I arrived, they didn’t tsk-tsk me; Tomoko, the masseuse, met me at the front door and swiftly led me to the treatment room. After I disrobed and settled myself face-down on the table, Tomoko proceeded to tenderize and flatten me like empanizado. She was professional and focused, which is the highest compliment I can think to pay a masseuse; she didn’t (a) chat me up, (b) quiz me about my tattoo, (c) ask me a million times if the pressure was okay, (d) do any weird whispery chanting over my head and end with “namaste,” or (e) offer me her card to contact her for private services. (Yes, all have happened to me during past massages, and yes, [e] was a male. With a ponytail.) She gave me the full 55 minutes, and I swear once she was done I looked about 55 years younger (or maybe the dim lighting in the treatment room helped give a more complimentary reflection in the mirror — whatever, I’ll take it). Tomoko delivered what I came for and sent me sauntering home on a lavender-scented cloud. Although I’m a bit of a cheapo when it comes to massages — I’m somehow still stuck on what I paid back in 1997 in San Diego, $30 for 60 minutes — my experience at Cynergy was worth every penny.

This entry was posted on Friday, September 7th, 2007 at 11:23 pm and is filed under la vie quotidienne, the locals. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.