Vachon Imagined

I should have known by the word reflexology in the title.

I’ve been to one of those places before, the kind that promises the ambiance of a perfect sunset, only to reveal the great paradox of tragedy lurking somewhere behind the trees in a swamp-infested jungle.

But alas, after a long day of travel, I decided to make an appointment.

This time will be fine.

Famous last words.

“This time will be fine,” says every woman who calls her ex-boyfriend and suddenly remembers, Ah. Nope. Not different. Definitely not different.

Abort! Abort!

And yet, here I was, doing the exact same thing, just in a different zip code, with a little Asian man who looked like he couldn’t hurt a fly but probably could have taken down a lion if given the chance.

I was looking for relaxation. A little spa treatment. Maybe a nice Swedish massage. Something soothing. Something that would gently remind my body that I had been traveling all day and deserved to be treated kindly.

Instead, I walked into a place where reflexology sat neatly between Thai massage and several other words I probably should have considered more carefully.

But I didn’t.

I committed.

I laid on the table with nothing but a sheet covering me, surrounded by the promise of lotus flowers, soft lighting, and the soothing sounds of nature.

And then it began.

Within minutes, I was being folded into a pretzel-like shape that would have made the WWE change its regulations.

My hips were contorting.

My spine was negotiating terms and tapping out with urgent rebellion.

I was making noises normally associated with wounded animals.

And the man performing this miracle of modern torture looked at me calmly and said:

“Relax.”

Ah.

Sure.

I’ll do that right after I figure out where my hip is.

Then, as I was quietly wailing in agony, I heard it.

Waiting for a Girl Like You.

Foreigner.

The piano version.

The soothing one.

The kind of music designed to make you believe you are floating peacefully through a field of lavender while, in reality, someone is attempting to fold your pelvis into your rib cage.

And there I was, humming along neurotically while thinking,

Damn, I haven’t heard this song in the longest time.

Which was remarkable, because I was currently fighting for my life.

The Swedish massage had disappeared somewhere between the lotus flowers and what had now become a full-scale street fight.

At one point, I wasn’t sure whether I was receiving bodywork or being prepared for a career in professional wrestling.

“Relax.”

He said it again.

I considered explaining that relaxation was no longer among my available options.

My options were now survival, screaming, or becoming permanently shaped like a question mark.

And yet, somewhere between the pain, the piano, and my increasingly desperate attempts to hum along with Foreigner, I realized something.

There is an Asian warrior in all of us.

Not the warrior we imagine when we are feeling particularly inspired, sitting comfortably in our favorite chair, drinking a Mai Tai, and contemplating how hard life has been.

I’m talking about the warrior who shows up when we would much rather stay in the corner.

The one who calls us out when we’re sulking.

The one who refuses to let our pain become a permanent residence.

And there will always be people willing to help us stay there.

They will sit beside us.

They will agree with us.

They will tell us we deserve to be comfortable.

They will help us explain why we can’t move.

Sometimes they will even hand us another Mai Tai.

And honestly, there are moments when that sounds pretty damn good.

But life has a way of refining us whether we give it permission or not.

It keeps placing us in situations that ask more of us.

It bends us.

It stretches us.

It exposes the places where we are weak and, eventually, teaches us how to stand differently.

At some point, something changes.

We stop needing to be dragged toward the hard road.

We start choosing it.

Not because it is easier.

It isn’t.

Not because we suddenly enjoy pain.

We don’t.

But because somewhere along the way, we become less interested in comfort and more interested in becoming capable.

The warrior doesn’t always arrive with a sword.

Sometimes it arrives as a man standing over you while you’re desperately trying to remember where your hip went.

Sometimes it arrives in the form of a difficult conversation.

A loss.

A responsibility.

A truth you would rather avoid.

A road you never would have chosen.

And eventually, you realize you have stopped asking for the Swedish version.

You willingly commit to the hard road.

Because you understand what it is making of you.

You can have absolutely no idea what is happening and still trust that eventually, it will be over.

No doubt, the Swedish massage, like countless things in my life, would be easier.

And if I were smarter, more disciplined, and a little less let me do it my way, I’d have figured this out a while ago.

My life would have been easier, and a hell of a lot more relaxing.

But apparently, every now and then, life books us for reflexology instead.