For Christmas a friend gave me a gift certificate to a local reflexologist. I wanted to wait until after I ran the Ragnar to use it since I thought my feet would need a little TLC.
In case you are unfamiliar, reflexology (in very layman’s terms) is a foot rub that claims that different points in the feet correspond with different parts of the body, like the organs. That means that by rubbing your big toe, you are really accessing another part of the body. I don’t know which part, but let’s say the spleen. I don’t buy into reflexology, and I’m pretty sure there is no sound science that supports it, but I’m open to trying most things that can’t hurt me. (I’m not trying to criticize anyone else’s views here, and I do believe that if you believe something works that belief can go alone way. If reflexology works for you, that is wonderful.) For me an hour reflexology appointment seemed a really good foot rub, and so I was really looking forward to it.
The experience was better than I expected. I still don’t think a point in my foot correlates or heals another part of my body, but I do believe our feet deserved to be pampered and that for all they do for us, we really take them for granted. My massage therapist tells me that falling asleep on the table is a compliment. If that is the case, I complimented my reflexologist within fifteen minutes.
I’m not entirely sure what happened because I was asleep for most of it. She told me afterwards that she basically popped open my sternum, worked around inside me, and then close me back up—all through my feet. Whatever she did, it felt fabulous. I could barely wake myself up. I felt drugged. If I didn’t have to go teach a class right after I would have crawled into bed in the middle of the afternoon.
I called the friend who had given me the gift certificate and she said, “Oh, I know. I always feel like I have to scrape myself off the table.” I must try it again to see if it’s a fluke.
All I know is my feet were clearly tired puppies and they enjoyed it.