Some people look for diamonds; others seek golden fame. Me, I’m trying to find the world’s greatest massage.
For years, I’ve been searching for a consciousness-altering, life-changing touch. A healing pain. The kind of muscular manipulation they outlawed centuries ago. I’ve explored high-dollar spas and in-home professionals1 in pursuit of a more perfect bodywork. But none have scratched my itch. I’m needing something more, my own vision of what a rub-down can really be.
You know those steamrollers they use to flatten fresh asphalt? I want to be driven over by one of those. Pancaked. Scooshed like a toothpaste tube. I want a grand piano lowered upside down on top of me til I go flat and squeeze out the sides like a jelly sandwich. I want to stow away inside a garbage truck and feel the sweet crunch of the compactor, after a monster truck goes back and forth over me a few times. There are more than 600 muscles in the human body—I want each of them professionally abused.
Quite simply, I want to be wrung out like a sponge.
So, with a bit of finesse and an open-minded PR contact, I shaved my back and headed out in pursuit of an All-Day Massage2.
I soon find myself sitting in the golf course parking lot at The Lodge at Torrey Pines, preparing to lie on a table for four consecutive massage sessions and wondering, Is there such a thing as too much good touch? I ponder the benefits of drinking water before I go. A desire for hydrated tissues and blood flowing silken through my veins is counteracted by not wanting to have to pee. So, I sip lightly and, with the bravery of a test pilot, head inside.
Two PR reps and the spa director greet me upon arrival. I’m made to understand that mine is a peculiar request. Yes, people combine massages and facials and foot rubs for a couple hours at a time, but this is different.
When I’d pitched the idea for an All-Day Massage, I was thinking big. Searching to find the far edge of what a massage can be. I’d hinted that six to eight hours would be ideal—but that less time may still allow me a solid glimpse of the truth I seek. The Spa at Torrey Pines offered four back-to-back 50-minute sessions of various specialities. I accepted3. With four, I’d at least know if I was onto something4.
In the eucalyptus-scented locker room, I disrobe, robe, and head to the waiting room for tea. Entering the small, LED-candle-lit treatment room that is to be my experiment lab, a quiet excitement takes hold. After all, a good massage can change your day, a great massage perhaps your week, so what might this massage change? My life? Will this be the back-rub ayahuasca I seek? Is ego death on the table?
The journey begins with a so-called Signature Massage. My therapist, Kirstan, works me head-to-toe—fingers in scalp, thumbs in instep. She has the touch, but I am not at once feeling squeezed like a zit. If this were a normal massage, I might be in my head—anxious or disappointed at not urgently having my body’s score wiped clean. But today, I settle into a new kind of calm. Instead of the main event, Kirstan’s session feels like a warmup, and, instead of feeling jittery, I relax, knowing that three more people will be kneading me like pizza dough.
Next up is a hot stone treatment with Ian. Hot stone massage has always sounded gimmicky to me, but when he slides the warm igneous ovals down my hairless back, I convert. My muscles break free of their restrictive fascia cocoons. Long-hardened tissue becomes soft muscle marmalade. Maybe this is working, I think. I still have hours to go.
After two sessions, I am indeed called to urinate5. Horizontal again, I begin to leave my body in a most extraordinary way.
Sometime during hour three, I travel through a door in my imagination to a place beyond sleep. Sitting quietly on the floor of a dimly lit room, I see thousands of screens playing what I understand to be all the dreams I will have for the remainder of my life. I’m excited to stay and watch, but I am suddenly jolted back into my body with a sinewy, incisive push.
My third therapist, Jeff, is scraping my trapezius with a gua sha stone, a kind of squeegee for muscles and lymphatic tissues. I feel my body unfolding like an origami crane returning to its crease-free origins, years of poor posture sighing in relief.
Like many whose lives are spent on a laptop, I tend to sit every way but correctly. My body is healthy but posturally unwell. I also happen to have a 2-year-old who treats me like a tackling dummy and climbs my spine like a stepladder, so, at times, I am sore. This is not unique. Some 30 percent of Americans say they suffer from chronic back pain. We all need more healing in our lives.
But good bodywork is not cheap. Money-wise, this is not an inexpensive experiment. The 50-minute Signature Massage at The Spa at Torrey Pines runs $235; the other services are more. All told, my four treatments would run upwards of $1,200 with gratuity.
A decadent endeavor, yes, but not unheard of when it comes to spa-day spending. If one has the money6, I imagine an All-Day Massage could prove a layup gift for anniversaries or birthdays or commemorating milestones and rites of passage—graduations, promotions, divorces. Getting wrung out is a great way to start a new chapter as an empty vessel. And who among us couldn’t benefit from that?
In hour four, I ride a waft of incense smoke back to semi-consciousness. A therapist named Jackie works a spicy spot between my shoulder blades with the savoir-faire of a virtuoso. This particular ache has been plaguing me for weeks, but, despite the day’s attention, it has yet to relent. However, as Jackie gently brings me back to reality, I notice calmness where there had been fury. It took time, but perhaps time is all I needed for that knot to untie.
Back in the fireplace-lit waiting room, I am desiccated and dry, ground into a paste. Sipping tea, I do a preliminary check to see if my All-Day Massage stripped my subjective sense of self-identity or if any unfortunate psychological and physiological effects passed down from my ancestors are resonating at a lower volume. It’s hard to say. A powerful headache is setting in; the rest will have to wait.
A shower, and I’m back on the road in I-5 traffic, slugging fluids and pondering Tylenol. In the days that follow, I notice my body feeling more pliable. I stretch more, sit straighter. After hours of being oiled, pressed, shaken, rubbed, and dug into with thumbs, elbows, and hot stones, I can say the experiment was a success. For those who seek the sweet release of a sponge-squeeze, an All-Day Massage might be the move. Just make sure you’re waterlogged first.
1. Once, thanks to Groupon, I found myself in a San Francisco apartment getting a martial arts massage I was told was usually done on the floor of a dojo. The strong therapist put his feet on the wall for leverage as he pushed his elbow into my upper glutes. The pain was breathtaking. I loved it.
2. Trademarking.
3. While wondering if this technically counts as a half-day.
4. I requested that the spa arrange for the therapists to come in with no breaks between. I wanted the feel of getting one incredibly long massage. I wanted overlap.
5. Knowing I should drink more water, I fail to do so. The heated table calls.
6. And many in La Jolla do.
