Free The Botox Diaries by Janice Kaplan, Lynn Schnurnberger Page A

life may be a mess but her room never is.
    “Calm down. You’re a little overwrought, don’t you think? Have some tea.”
    “I don’t want tea.”
    Well, this is progress. I’m guessing she doesn’t want the sugar cookies I brought, either. I sigh. “Come on, Lucy. What can I do for you? If it’s a tough time, let me help.”
    “I don’t know what kind of time it is,” she says, pausing. “But thanks.” She stretches and anchors both hands on her slim hips. “On top of whatever else is going on, my back is killing me. I feel like I’m eighty.”
    I stifle my impulse to point out that back pain is often related to stress—or sexual gymnastics. Instead, I commiserate. “Tell me about it. I swear I creak when I get up in the morning. I don’t care
what
the magazines say, forty is the new eighty.”
    “I thought fifty was supposed to be the new forty,” she says, but at least she smiles.
    “What about Botox for the back pain?” I suggest, drawing on my new, all-purpose remedy. “They use it for migraines.”
    Lucy rolls her eyes. “You’re so naïve,” she says, patting my hand. “That’s just a way to try to get the insurance to pay for it.” She pauses, and suddenly her eyes light up. “But do you know what we do need?”
    Something better than new lingerie, I pray silently.
    “Thai massage!” she says, suddenly bubbling again like the old Lucy. “It’s amazing, you’ll see. You’ll come with me, right?” As usual she doesn’t wait for an answer, but snaps her fingers and snaps into action. “I’ll make the appointment.”
    “Face down on the mat, hands behind your head.”
    Now that’s a promising beginning, particularly since I’m standing here with nothing on but a thin cotton robe, held together by a rib-bony sash. The burly man barking the order stands inches away, and he flexes his muscular arm so that the snake tattoo on his bulging bicep practically jumps out and bites me.
    “Is this a massage or a bank robbery?” I whisper to Lucy.
    “Shh, don’t make jokes. Pay attention and just go with the flow.”
    Lucy looks Zen tranquil, which is completely baffling to me sinceMr. Biceps—aka the massage therapist—is forcing us down toward the cushions on the floor. The room is cozy and dimly lit, a lavender lava lamp glows in the corner and the strong odor of vanilla incense makes me gag. Mercifully, Yanni isn’t moaning in the background. So far, the Thai massage that Lucy promised would relax every muscle in my body has instead put every muscle on alert.
    “You’re welcome to take off the robes and anything underneath, ladies,” says the guy I met only five minutes ago. And why wouldn’t I strip for someone with one day’s growth of beard and a mail-order diploma from Massage America? Lucy, however, drops her robe and immediately starts to peel off her thong.
    Next thing I know, I’m lying facedown on the mat with Lucy beside me. I shut my eyes tight. I’m going to relax right now if it kills me. Okay, we’re starting. But how can I relax? I swear the guy is mounting me. He is. He’s sitting on my behind, all two hundred pounds of him, and grabbing my wrists. I try to twist around to see what’s going on, but Ravi Master, as he’s told us to call him—I’d bet anything that’s not what the priest called him at his baptism, but I’m in no position to quibble—shakes my wrists and doesn’t let go.
    “The tension through your muscles is moving into my arms. Into my arms. Into my arms,” Ravi Master chants as he tightens his grip. “So you can relax. You can relax. You can relax. You’re at peace with the world. Peace with the world. Peace with the world.” Does the man have a stutter or is he just a poor conversationalist?
    He’s chanting. He’s shaking. I’m losing consciousness—not in a good way. My arms have been starved of blood flow for at least four minutes. I think they’re dead. They must be dead. They are dead. Now that I’m too numb to reach